


Howling Wilderness

by Atlantic_Seaglass



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Historical, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28529001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlantic_Seaglass/pseuds/Atlantic_Seaglass
Summary: The Eighth Doctor and Charley mistakenly land in a backwater town in January, 1832. They wanted to visit New York City instead but, in typical fashion, the Doctor finds something that intrigues him in this quaint place. Adventure and danger shortly follow.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reposting this after taking it down some time ago, because I had - unsuccessfully - submitted it to a Big Finish competition. Since this story didn't get taken up, I'm free to put it back here. Apologies to those who read and loved it previously! It's back and I'm going to post up the whole thing this time around.
> 
> As before, this is posted largely as it was written so apologies for any mistakes that might be spotted.

It seemed unusually brisk even for a January evening. Zachariah Moore sat on an upturned bucket, a neck collar across his knees. He had been scrubbing and polishing the collar for over half an hour in the hope of having it gleaming in time for the mayor's departure. The chill in the air made his fingers ache and throb, which slowed him. He'd tried to work with his mittens on but that only made it more difficult to hold anything. In the end, he had settled for pulling on his sheepskin coat and pretending that his hands were not cold and stiff.

If Mister Dent believed in heating the stable, it wouldn't be so bad, but the old hostler was a firmer devotee of the notion that keeping busy made a man warm enough to withstand any degree of cold. Certainly he was perpetually in motion, even as a man of nearly fifty. His unrelenting demands to 'get back to work' annoyed Zachariah and his fellow stable hands. They worked plenty hard enough in their own respective opinions but nothing satisfied Horace Dent. Zachariah himself would not been sitting up so late with this collar if he had been able to squeeze in the time to clean it earlier in the day.

He paused in his determined polishing of the rein terrets to flex his half-numbed fingers, then arched his back to stretch out cramped muscles. There was little time to sit idle of course but a few seconds' respite did no harm. There was no else around the stable at that hour. Not with Mister Dent away having his dinner. It was a rare relief indeed.

And then, inevitably, his solitude was intruded upon.

'Doctor,' said a female voice from around the corner of the stable. 'Where are we?'

'We're supposed to be in New York City. But this looks nothing like I thought it would. How interesting.'

'If the TARDIS has gotten us lost again, I really will have no faith in it any more. This was supposed to be a holiday trip.'

Zachariah frowned as he looked up, to see two people come walking around the corner. They had come from the short alley that ran between the stable and the shed in which the wagons and carriages were stored. It was not a direction guests of Hatch House typically came but neither was it unknown. He set the collar carefully aside – no sense in letting it get dirty when it was all but finished – and stood up.

'May I help you, sir?'

'Ah, yes, I think so,' said the man, who looked and sounded like a gentleman. An English gentleman at that. Odd. 'We've, ah, just arrived. Can you tell us where we are?'

Both his eyebrows arched. 'You're behind the Hatch House stables, sir,' he answered.

'Hatch House...?'

'Hatch House. It's the best inn this side of Portland.' He hesitated, then decided fetching in business could do no harm. 'Do you need a room, sir? You said you just got here...'

'Well, we may not be here that long. We've come to meet Poe.'

Poe? 'The poet?'

'Yes. He has moved here recently. We're hoping to meet him.'

That was very much news to him. Not that he would have cared anyway, not at all liking the grim tone of Poe's work. These two must think quite the opposite if they wished to meet the man, which didn't go far at all in easing Zachariah's growing suspicion of them. 'He's not come here, sir,' he told the gentleman. 'He's down in the south somewhere. Maryland, I think.'

'No, he's moved.' The gentleman frowned a little. 'This is New York City, isn't it?'

This time, Zachariah's eyebrows drew sharply together. 'You're wicked far off from New York City, sir. This is Bangor.'

The two strangers exchanged glances, with the gentleman seeming almost apologetic and the lady rather annoyed. 'And where is Bangor, exactly?'

'It's in Maine, of course.'

'Ah. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I should have guessed.' The gentleman managed to smile despite the obvious awkwardness of the situation. 'Did you say something about an inn, Mister...?'

'Zachariah, sir,' was the stable hand's slow, wary reply. He was not about to let slip his surname. 'Sure, it's just around the corner. Shall I show you the way?' Since these two clearly had no sense of direction. At all.

'We're not staying here, Doctor,' the lady protested. 'It's freezing and not where you promised we'd go.'

'Just for the night, Charley. This doesn't seem like such a bad town anyway. You might like it better in the morning.'

'I doubt that very much.'

This was entirely too strange for Zachariah's liking. He dusted off his hands and coughed politely. The sooner he got rid of these two, the better. Ideally before Mister Dent came to the back to see if he'd finished with the collar. 'If you'll follow me, sir?'

Mercifully, the two strangers followed without a word, though the respite did not last long. They had not reached Main Street before the gentleman was asking, 'What's all the bustle for?'

'It's the logging season,' Zachariah answered, judging this to be the first harmless question to come out. 'Wilbur Dawson's crew has been gathering this week. They're going north in the next two days but Dawson's only got a small strip of land so he gets away with leaving it late.'

'Is he the only logger still in town?'

'Yes, sir. Everyone else is up north. This is prime cutting time. We won't see any of the crews down this way again until the spring thaw. That's when the river drives start.' Zachariah waited until a short convoy of sleighs had gone gliding past. Crossing Main Street was always a dangerous business. 'Come on, please. Best be quick!'

He set off at a trot across the busy road without a backward glance, too well-used to making these crossings to spare a thought for anyone who wasn't. It was sheer luck that the two strangers stayed close enough to get safely across themselves. Predictably, the gentleman was the first to speak again once they'd reached the wide pedestrian way in front of Hatch House.

'You must know a far bit of the logging trade, then.'

Zachariah shrugged. 'Some. I was up with one of Thibodeau's crews not that long ago. This is Hatch House, here. You'll find Mister Hatch still up. He ought to get you settled easy enough.'

It was meant as an end to the conversation but the gentleman seemed oblivious. 'In a moment. I admit I'm curious now; this is clearly a logging town, you have worked as a logger, yet aren't one now.'

'Mister Thibodeau cut me loose. He's known for that when he decides he doesn't like a fellow.' He shrugged again. This was not the truth, of course, but these two didn't need to know that. 

'That's hardly fair, though,' the gentleman's companion remarked. 'Disliking somebody is no reason to sack him.'

'Tell that to Mister Thibodeau, Miss. He's the boss so he can do what he pleases. Besides, he's never short of men for his crews. He cuts more timber than just about anyone else hereabouts. He pays a top wage too. Almost has to, I guess. His camps are the closest ones of ours to the border region.'

'The border?'

The question revived his suspicion. 'With Canada, sir. Well. New Brunswick anyway.'

'So there's competition with Canadian loggers?'

'You... could say that, sir. They've been making trouble about where the border actually is for a while now. They say it's right along where the Penobscot River starts, a ways north of here. Everyone knows it's actually the Saint John River about a hundred miles farther north.'

'Hmm. Tell me more about this fellow Thibodeau. It's curious that he's able to attract workers so easily, despite being so close to foreign competition and a disputed border.'

'He always gets the best lumber. His springtime drives push other crews off the rivers, and he always pays his crews well for their work. Most boys around here figure the risk worth it. 'Sides. Mister Thibodeau's a leading citizen hereabouts. Whole city trusts him. It looks good on a fellow to be in his employ.'

'It's still curious. But I suppose greed has a way of overcoming other considerations.'

'Not greed, sir. Reputation. Bangor's known the whole world over for its lumber and Mister Thibodeau's the king of the northern woods. He's been a lumberjack all of his life. Nobody in the county knows the northern woods better. Word is he's got land up around the Aroostook River too. He probably owns the most acreage of anyone.' Zachariah's brow furrowed. It was tough to keep hold of his suspicions when the gentleman's questions obliged him to think. 'Especially up that way. I don't think anybody else has camps that close to the border. Nobody wants to take the risk, really.'

'Where is the Aroostook River?'

'Way up north, sir. Not far from the Saint John, I think.'

The gentleman looked meaningfully at his companion, who groaned. 'No, Doctor. This is supposed to be a holiday.'

'It is, Charley. But this is interesting. Where might I find Mister Thibodeau?'

'You won't find him down here, sir. This time of year he'll be up north at one of his camps.'

'I see.' The gentleman looked thoughtful. 'You mentioned that nobody wants to 'take the risk'. What does that mean?'

Ah hell. He shouldn't have said that. 'Um, well... most figure it to be more trouble than it's worth, cutting where the Canadians could come swooping in to claim that the land is actually theirs.'

'Except for Thibodeau, apparently.'

'Mister Thibodeau isn't most folk, no.' Zachariah was not sure he really liked where this conversation was going but could see no way to get himself out of it, short of simply walking away – and to do so to potential guests would see him dismissed with startling speed. 

'Perhaps that's why he's at his camps and not in town. Has there been any trouble along this disputed border lately?'

'Some. Folks trying to start up farms around the East Branch have had problems with Canadian land agents. There's been rumours the militia will get called out.' He paused, considering whether it was really wise to go on, until he decided that he hadn't yet said anything that wasn't already public knowledge. 'Some lumberjacks have up and gone missing too, not long before Thibodeau gave me the boot. Folks figure they've been arrested and carted off as prisoners or something by the Canadians. I'm happy to not be up there anymore, myself.'

The gentleman didn't respond to that directly. Instead, he looked again at his companion, who now looked resigned. 'We ought to speak to Thibodeau, don't you think, Charley? This sounds like trouble is brewing here. I want to find out more about it.'

'But Doctor – '

'Is there anyone in town who can take us north? We have business with Mister Thibodeau. Business that can't wait.'

'Um – well, there's a supply wagon going out tomorrow, first thing, but – ' It was all Zachariah could do not to stumble over the words, caught so unawares as he was by the abrupt request.

'Why can it not go out this evening?'

'It's dark, sir. Never mind that it's a long haul to make at night.'

'But can it be done?'

'Well, yes, but – '

The gentleman didn't hear him, having at last gone past into Hatch House's splendid lobby. Bewildered, Zachariah looked at his companion, who was shaking her head.

'I was afraid of this,' was all she said as she too went inside.

That had been the goal all along, he decided, though it wasn't accomplished quite how he'd wanted. But he was rid of the pair now. It was smart to return to the stable before they came back out, so Zachariah hurried across the street, expertly dodging sleighs and single horses. His return was badly-timed, however. He reached the rear stable yard in nearly the same instant as Mister Dent, whose face went a dangerous shade of red on realising that not only had Zachariah been absent but also that he had failed to finish cleaning the single neck collar.

When a wide-eyed Billy Daniels came looking for him some twenty minutes later with a summons from Mister Hatch himself, Zachariah's ears were still ringing.


	2. Chapter 2

  
This was the looniest arrangement he'd ever heard of. Isaac Hatch stood waiting expectantly, however, and try as he might, Zachariah could come up with no good reason to refuse his employer. He had to do it. Damn it.

'I'd be happy to take them north, sir,' he said.

'Good. Excellent. You'll be in good hands, Doctor Smith. Moore here is our best teamster.'

Thanks a heap, Mister Hatch. Zachariah plastered a smile onto his face and hoped very much that neither of these two knew of the Moores of Augusta. He had done his best to cut any ties with his father since coming to Bangor and he didn't want any possible connection renewed now. 'Where is the buckboard, sir?'

'In Lowell's yard. You can bring it around to the front here when you're ready for your passengers.'

'Yes sir.'

That was that, then. There was no arguing with the boss. Zachariah showed himself out, glad at least he had come through the tradesmen's entrance so he didn't have to spend too much time with this doctor fellow or his lady companion just yet. There was something... something off about those two. He just couldn't put his finger on precisely what. Perhaps it didn't matter. He wasted no time getting back to the stable, where he picked his team and corralled Billy Daniels to help him lead the pair to Lowell's goods yard just down the street. Between the two of them, it didn't take long to get the monstrous Shires hitched to the buckboard, which fortunately was already loaded. It was a foresight Zachariah was deeply grateful for. 

Driving the wagon around the block so he could pull it up directly outside Hatch House and face in the right direction took a minute or two, during which time Daniels rode casually on the edge of the driver's bench, his legs dangling over the street. He did not leap down and all but run off until Zachariah drew up outside Hatch House. That didn't surprise him. Daniels was astonishingly shy around people he didn't know. Nor was it a surprise that the doctor fellow and his companion were waiting outside the inn.

'I have to apologise, Mister Moore,' Doctor Smith said to him, after Zachariah hopped down from the driver's bench. 'We never introduced ourselves. I'm the Doctor and this is Charley Pollard.'

'A pleasure, sir, Miss,' Zachariah replied and tried to hide his reluctance when the Doctor held out his hand. He had long since put on heavy mittens but they would not prevent anyone immediately realising that his right hand was not intact. Not that he could refuse a handshake without seeming unforgivably rude. So he grasped the offered hand and almost as quickly let it go. It was easier to acknowledge Miss Pollard, which he did with a brief touch of the brim of his battered low-crowned hat. Then, with pleasantries happily dispensed with, he looked around expectantly.

'Any bags to load in, sir?'

'No. We didn't bring any. You're getting just us.'

His brow furrowed. Who on earth travelled anywhere without luggage? 'Not even a change of clothes for the lady, sir?'

'I'm perfectly fine with what I'm wearing, thank you.'

'If you say so, Miss. There's a bunch of extra clothing in the back if either of you need it, anyway. You're welcome to climb in and get comfortable now. We'll be off in a minute.'

The mention of extra clothes brought Miss Pollard to the wagon side to have a look. She was not dressed for the weather, Zachariah noted, and so was not at all surprised to see her assertion of only a moment ago proven a lie.

'Isn't that a lot of heavy clothes?' She asked him, eying the pile of cloaks, coats, and blankets in the buckboard's bed.

Zachariah slung a cloak over his sheepskin coat and replied, 'It gets wicked cold up in the woods, Miss. Being prepared is no bad thing.'

'Well yes, but – it is only the three of us.'

'You may freeze if you like, Miss, but I won't,' he remarked, perhaps a little too curtly. Aside from the clothes, none of the supplies in the wagon bed were for them anyway. They were items the lumberjacks would welcome. But to be cold unnecessarily on the journey north? Not for him!

Miss Pollard frowned. 'There's no need to be rude about it.' She did not wait for him to form an apology, but made her way back to the inn's warm interior. Zachariah sighed. Ladies were frustrating creatures. It could be no concern of his, though. All he had to do was convey them north. They needn't become lifelong friends or any foolery like that.

'Everything in order?' The question came from Doctor Smith.

'Just about, sir. Billy's bringing out extra candles for the lanterns, then we can be on the road.' Such as the road was. Once they left Bangor, there was no way to know how good the travelling would be. They'd have to find out as they went. Zachariah had confidence in the team he had chosen though. The two monstrous Shires could plough their way through snow up to their chests with little difficulty, and do so all day long. They were more than equal to the job of pulling the laden buckboard all the way to Dolby Pond.

Speaking of Billy Daniels, here came the lad now, clutching a tied bundle of six-hour candles. Zachariah stowed these beneath the tarpaulin that was lashed down over the small mound of perishable supplies to protect it against unexpected snowfall, then stepped to one side. 'If you want to get settled, you're welcome to,' he said to Smith.

'Yes, thank you,' the Doctor answered, and went into the inn to find his companion. Zachariah noted that he had not put on so much as a cloak in preparation for the journey ahead of them. Well, that would change when hours of sitting idle in an uncovered wagon chilled his bones. Shrugging, Zachariah climbed up onto the driver's bench. The matching pair of roans were shifting restlessly, as ready as he was to be off. 

They were underway only a few minutes later. The snow-packed streets were crowded but space was made for the wagon as it passed, which helped speed them on. Bangor was left behind within a half-hour. Before them stretched the packed-down track that was the road north. The lanterns hanging on the sides of the wagon seemed dim and inadequate after the comparatively well-lit city streets. Zachariah soon felt it necessary to light another and hang it from the pole fixed to the side of the bench for that very purpose. Other than the merry jingle of the bells on the harnesses, there was little sound. His passengers appeared disinterested in open conversation, choosing instead to speak in low voices to each other, which suited him fine. He was still unconvinced that the pair weren't drunk, or even a little bit insane. There was no other reasonable explanation for the gentleman's insistence on such a late departure for the north, on suddenly pressing business with Mister Thibodeau.

The wagon had passed the unmarked turn-off for old James Bean's farm before Smith at last spoke. 'Will we get to the camp by daybreak, do you think?'

Zachariah glanced up at the star-sprinkled night sky and replied, 'If the road stays good, we ought to. Travelling at night is not usually done. Seeing where you're going in the dark is pretty tough but I know the way, sir.'

'Yes, of course.' Smith paused then added, 'Tell me again, how did you come to leave Mister Thibodeau's employ?'

'He dismissed me, sir. For disobedience.' More or less. Zachariah was still not sure how he was guilty of that offence, but there was no arguing with a man like Thibodeau. It was not the loss of his job he resented anymore but instead the consequences of it. Were it not for Isaac Hatch's resolute kindness, Zachariah would not have found a job anywhere else in the city.

'Disobedience?'

He shrugged. 'I don't remember much of those few days. I was laid out with a fever. But when Robert Thibodeau decides a fellow is to be got rid of, he gets rid of him. He's got a lot of pull around the county, sir.'

'So... you don't recall doing anything to merit being sacked, but you were anyway?'

'Just about. Who am I to argue? I did deserve it, a little, anyway. I went off into a snowstorm and got lost, and near froze to death.' Zachariah flexed his hands on the driving lines and the team, sensing the shift in tension, stirred into a trot of their own accord. He had to draw them back to a walk. 'It's been a rough winter so far, sir.'

'Yes, I've heard. You must have been lucky to survive.'

'You could say that, I suppose. Some of the boys found me.' He hesitated, then took both lines into his left hand and used his teeth to pull off the mitten from his right hand. There was no point in concealing his disfigurement any longer, particularly since Smith would have noticed earlier from his handshake. 'I wouldn't have been much use to Mister Thibodeau if he'd kept me on. A man needs to be able to pull all his own weight in the woods.'

The Doctor regarded Zachariah's hand without apparent shock. But then, he was a medical man, wasn't he, so he would be used to such things. 'Frostbite, I believe?'

'Yes, sir.' Zachariah curled his hand into a loose fist, grimacing at the tingles of cold already seeping into the stubs of his three shortened fingers. 'A clean cut of it was made, at least. Lumberjacks are good at that.'

'It looks to have healed well, too.'

He stuck the mitten beneath his left armpit in order to get it securely back onto his hand. 'It has. I'm thankful for that. We'll be a good while before we're near the camps, sir. You may want to get some sleep.'

The Doctor's smile was all but impossible to see in the gently-waving lantern light. 'Yes, I believe I may. Thank you.' He settled back into the buckboard's laden bed and said nothing more. Zachariah glanced back and noted that Miss Pollard was already asleep, curled up beneath a wool blanket. Her companion appeared content to recline against the covered casks of salt pork. Shrugging slightly, Zachariah turned his gaze back to the track ahead of them. The team were stepping out briskly, forging their way through the two feet of snow that had fallen earlier in the day. He clucked his tongue at them and they obediently quickened to a trot. Sleep might suit his passengers but not him. Not if they wanted to get where they were going!


	3. Chapter 3

The eastern sky was slowly draining of nighttime blackness when the buckboard glided out of the woods and into a wide clearing. A sleepy-eyed Zachariah guided the team, whose heads were drooping after their night's work, toward a corral on the edge of the clearing. Stopping here at the Shad Pond camp for a rest was his foremost thought. It was not until the wagon was halfway across the camp that he realised the corral was empty of horses. He reined in, allowing the Shires to shamble to a halt, and uncurled his stiff body from the bench. His boots sank down into knee-deep snow when he stepped down from the wagon, nearly causing him to stumble. Unpacked snow was not normal. Not in a place like this.

'Are we there at last?' Miss Pollard's sleepy voice enquired from the wagon bed.

Zachariah unhooked a lantern from the side of the wagon. 'Just wait a minute, Miss,' he replied. A nasty tingle of unease was going down his spine. He had been in this camp only a month ago and it was full of men and beasts. This was prime cutting season. Why should there be no one here? He slogged his way toward the bunkhouse, unable to chase away the increasing feeling that something terrible had happened here. Worse, he had the uncomfortable nagging idea that he knew what, but could not recall. He stopped short, a dozen yards away from the bunkhouse door, struck by a flash of extreme cold, the smell of damp fur, and the memory of a howling gale, pierced by a high-pitched echoing scream.

He was back at the buckboard before he knew he had even decided to retreat. The Shires were a little slow to respond to the slap of lines across their backs, but they stirred themselves into a slow trot when Zachariah gave them a second urging.

'Why aren't we stopping?' The Doctor asked him, sitting up against the side of the wagon bed, almost directly behind Zachariah.

'There's no one home, sir.' It galled him that he could not keep the quaver from his voice. 'We'd best push on to Dolby Pond. There'll be folks there.'

'It seems like nobody's been here for a while,' the Doctor observed. 'Surely we should – '

'Best not to, sir,' Zachariah interrupted. The Doctor's eyes were on his back, he could feel the weight of the gaze, but he kept his head resolutely forward. 'It's too cold to go poking around somewhere that nobody's at.'

'There must be a reason for nobody being back there,' came the reply. 'You seem to know what that might be. Or you suspect, certainly.'

'Camps get abandoned all the time. We'll find that crew at Dolby Pond. I'm sure of it.' Except that he was anything but sure. Down deep in his gut, he knew that something had cleared this camp of its crew, but he could not say what. It had something to do with freezing cold and a scream, though. Perhaps the ice on the pond had given way while the crew were crossing it? He seized upon that as a reasonable explanation for the camp being deserted but chose to keep it to himself. Best not to alarm the lady. Or prompt more questions from her companion.

Fortunately, the Doctor did not press his interrogation. Zachariah allowed himself to be relieved by his silence. He would not allow himself to be worried that it would resume at a later time. He hadn't reckoned with Miss Pollard, though.

'It didn't feel right back there, Doctor,' she said. 'There's something... wrong in the air.'

'Yes. I think so too.'

'Why should that camp be empty, anyway? Isn’t this the time to be cutting trees and all that?'

'It is. I suspect we will find out why it is deserted soon enough.'

Zachariah did his best to ignore them. It was only a couple of miles between the camps and he wanted only to reach Dolby Pond. Delivering these two there would serve as a timely distraction to the sudden, unsettling fragments of memories swirling around his head. He had done his best over the past month to forget the Shad Pond camp, but all was for naught now, it seemed.

Sunlight was filtering down through the trees, its still-weak light slow to pierce the stubborn gloom of the snowy forest floor. It was like a pale pink glow settling earthward more than anything else, lending the faintest tinge of colour to the pristine white of the snow. Any other time, Zachariah would have marvelled at the simple beauty of the scene, but in that moment he could see only the thinning of the trees ahead that indicated the nearness of the West Branch. His previous assertion that the Shad Pond crew had fallen victim to thin ice had dissolved. He drew up at the riverbank and looked around until he spotted a suitable place to cross, then set the team at it, keeping them carefully at a walk.

'Won't the ice crack under us?' Miss Pollard asked, peering nervously over the side of the wagon.

'Not with as cold as it's been lately, Miss. It'll hold.' The assurance was offered confidently enough, but he still found himself silently praying he was right. The team clopped steadily over the ice, tired but still stepping smartly enough. As the buckboard's runners slid up the bank on the far side of the river, Zachariah let out a breath he was embarrassed to realise he'd been holding. He gave the lines a flick, pushing the team into a trot. It was now only a few hundred yards to the Dolby Pond camp and he was impatient to reach it.

The same total, eerie silence that dominated the Shad Pond camp crept out to meet the wagon as it glided through the untouched snow concealing the packed-down track beneath. There was no smell of woodsmoke or ringing of laughter. Zachariah’s fingers tightened on the lines. He didn't like this quiet but try as he might, he could not put his finger on why. Partial memories and gut feelings were not things to rely on, even when they carried such weight as did his.

'It’s so quiet,' Miss Pollard whispered.

'Something is not right here,' said the Doctor.

Zachariah held his tongue. He was afraid of what he might say if he spoke. Instead, he drove the team as calmly as he could to the camp’s corral, which was empty of animals. The horses needed rest before the group started back for Bangor, so, deserted camp or not, they would be staying a while. At least it was now daylight. He didn’t much relish trying to get settled in the dark. 

The Shires whickered when they were again allowed to halt. Zachariah knotted the lines before letting them drop. 'Stay in the wagon a moment, please,' he told his passengers as he slung himself down from the bench. 

'I couldn’t possibly sit here any longer,' Miss Pollard replied. 'I’m terribly cramped and cold.'

She was, he realised on glancing back, already lowering herself carefully over the side of the wagon bed. The Doctor was already standing in the snow and had a hand upstretched to help her down. Zachariah clicked his mouth shut, stifling a protest, and instead continued on his way toward the foreman’s cabin. He didn’t know the crew of this camp, beyond that it was managed by Daniel Alfond. No one answered when he hailed the cabin as he approached, however. Neither was there any response when, after a long hesitation, he called for Mister Thibodeau as well. 

'They must all be up on the cut site,' he said, hoping he sounded convincing, as he went tramping through the snow back to the wagon. He was doing the horses no favours by leaving them hitched up. 'They won’t mind if we settle in. Especially not since we’ve brought them supplies.'

'Hmm.' The Doctor had crossed to the foreman’s cabin, quite unbidden and unwanted. 'You see to the horses, Mister Moore. Charley and I will have a look around.'

'Wait, sir – '

But the pair had already entered the cabin and either did not hear him or were happy to ignore him. One of the horses bumped its massive head against him, handily stopping him from going after them. But the team were his priority and he knew that. Once they were unharnessed, rubbed down, and fed, he could find out what on earth his passengers were up to. It didn’t occur to him that leaving the horses hitched did them no harm. Instead, he hurried through the process, not bothering to remove the collars until after he’d led the Shires to the empty corral. It was more expedient to lift the collars off then and leave them hanging from fence posts.

It took more than ten minutes to see to the horses, during which time his two passengers emerged from the foreman’s cabin and moved on to the bunkhouse. Their determination to explore was unsettling to him. Just who were they, anyway? He was certain that neither had heard of Robert Thibodeau before yesterday, yet the gentleman Miss Pollard repeatedly addressed as ‘Doctor’ made a determined show of having pressing business with him. Just what that business was, though, he didn’t appear inclined to say. It was all wicked strange.

He hesitated several seconds, torn between following this doctor and Miss Pollard to the bunkhouse and looking around Mister Alfond’s cabin himself. The latter option won out, for he was not sure he even really wanted to know what those two were up to. On his approach to the foreman’s cabin, he noted immediately that the windows were heavily frosted. The sight brought him up short. He had seen this before. He knew he had. A dozen memories flashed through his mind in the same instant; memories of frost creeping its way up the inside walls of the outhouse at Shad Pond, of crippling cold bringing him to his knees in the empty woods outside the camp, of the stench of damp fur and a fleeting glimpse of an enormous shape in the darkness, of a scream that nearly froze the blood in his veins – 

'Mister Moore!'

Zachariah opened his eyes, startled to realise he was on his knees in the snow, curled up nearly into a ball with his arms wrapped around himself as the echoes of that inhuman scream faded into silence. For the briefest of moments, he thought himself back in the Shad Pond camp, but the crunch of shoes in the snow and the unfamiliar voice put a lie to that. The Doctor had called out to him, and quite obviously was making his way quickly over. Embarrassment swiftly overtook his confusion and in turn was swiftly overtaken itself by dread.

'Mister Moore, are you all right?'

Was he all right? No, certainly not. 'No one here still lives,' he said, slowly sitting up, his hands curled tightly into fists. He could not articulate how he knew that this camp’s crew were all dead, just as the Shad Pond crew was dead, but he knew it all the same. The truth was starkly clear to him, as if he had been struck by a lightning bolt.

'What do you mean?'

He drew in a breath to calm his racing heart. 'Every man here is dead, sir. They will all be frozen, wherever they have fallen. It – this – the Shad Pond crew will have suffered the same fate.' And I do not remember what has caused this.

'Frozen? It is cold, certainly, but not as cold as that,' Miss Pollard said.

Zachariah flexed the remaining fingers of his right hand, which tingled painfully with cold. 'Frozen, Miss. I – I have seen this before.' He rose to his feet, self-consciously waving away the Doctor’s offered hand. 'There will be snowdrifts where there shouldn’t be snowdrifts. If – if we clear even one away, we will find a man frozen solid.'

That was how the Burtons had been found. He remembered clearing snow away to discover George’s lifeless blue face staring up at him. It would be no different here, and at the Shad Pond camp… he flexed his hand again, quite unconsciously, and abruptly started toward the cookhouse. That was the one building they had not yet gone near and there were snowdrifts around it that did not belong.

'Somehow I don’t think that’s a good idea,' the Doctor began. He and Miss Pollard were following him.

'I have to know.' It was important to him to be certain, beyond any doubt, that he wasn’t simply dreaming. Zachariah fell upon the drifted snow almost clumsily, beginning at once to dig into it. It was difficult work with thick mittens on his hands but he persisted. There was a man buried here and he had to prove it, if only to himself.

'Good heavens!'

The exclamation came from Miss Pollard, who arrived in time to see the frozen, rigid face of Daniel Alfond as Zachariah swept snow off from it.

'Who is that?' The Doctor wanted to know.

'It’s Mister Alfond. He’s the foreman here.' But that was wrong, wasn’t it? 'He was the foreman here.'

'He's...'

'Frozen. Yes.' Zachariah started to dig away more snow from the lumberjack's body, but the Doctor stopped him by laying a hand lightly on his shoulder.

'It may be best to leave him in peace, Mister Moore.'

That was wise, he realised after a second's consideration. He set himself to covering Mister Alfond's face with snow again, resolving to return in the spring to see him and his crew buried correctly. 'I had better get a fire going in his cabin. We all could do with some breakfast.'

It was an abrupt statement, followed by his equally-abrupt lurch to his feet. He was remembering more about Shad Pond and he didn't like it one bit. It was not something he wanted to think about at all. He returned to the buckboard as quickly as he could, only peripherally aware that his two passengers were following closely. It was not a particularly cold morning yet he felt as though an icy chill was steadily turning him numb. He could not rid his mind of the sight of Mister Alfond's rigid, frozen face. It was much too reminiscent of how the Burtons had looked, when they had been found.

'Mister Moore, what is going on here?'

The question gave Zachariah pause as he worked at the knots in the rope keeping the tarpaulin taut over the pile of supplies. What is going on here? At best he could offer only a partial answer to that query and that was more than he wanted to give. His gaze drifted to his right hand, blessedly concealed by the mitten, and tried to calm the stormy tangle of his thoughts. These two had seen Mister Alfond. They knew that something was very wrong here. But could he tell them what he knew, what he remembered, and hope to not be immediately dismissed as out of his mind?

He fumbled with the knot for a few moments before saying, 'You would not believe it were I to say, sir. It... it's best to say this camp has suffered a sheer regrettable misfortune.'

'Try us,' said the Doctor.


	4. Chapter 4

_Try us_ , the Doctor said. Except that he wasn't sure either of these two would believe him. Why should they? He wasn't sure he believed any of this himself and he'd _lived_ it.

'I don't – ' A glance at him and then at Miss Pollard did little to ease Zachariah's misgivings. He flexed his hands, winced at the twinge of chilled pain in his fingers, and sighed. 'There is something evil in the woods up here. It kills with cold. It freezes men. I have... I've seen. I've felt it. At Shad Pond, around about a month ago. It's some kind of giant beast that comes when it snows. I remember... it brought a wicked gale and frigid cold with it, one night. I was not in the bunkhouse when it appeared. The air was so terribly cold, and when it screamed, I thought my blood would freeze solid inside me. Then it was just suddenly gone. The foreman was able to save Amos, but the Burtons... we didn't find the Burtons until the next morning, buried in snowdrifts and frozen stiff.'

Speaking of that night brought more memories of it back, causing him to tremble as if he was living it again. He abandoned his half-hearted picking at the stubborn knot and tried to marshal himself enough to continue the story, but an inhumanely high-pitched scream rent the morning air. Zachariah gripped the edge of the wagon bed, feeling his muscles tighten and his very heart squeeze as the scream echoed through the trees. He felt so desperately cold that he could not even shiver. It was not until the forest was finally quiet again that sensation began to return to his limbs, thus allowing him to release the stranglehold he had on the wagon.

'Good heavens, Doctor, I have never heard anything so awful!'

'Yes, it was quite unusual.' The Doctor's tone was thoughtful and when Zachariah looked his way, he saw the fellow already beginning to slog through the snow in the direction of the scream. What was he – and there went Miss Pollard after her companion.

'Is it really wise to go off into these woods, Doctor? You hardly know what you're chasing.'

'I don't, no, but I intend to find out. Are you coming, Charley?'

'Of course I am. Wait a moment, will you?'

Zachariah closed his eyes and suppressed a shudder. He knew too well that going _toward_ the scream was to go toward a terrible fate. These two were clearly not wholly in their right minds. By rights he should let them go blundering on to their ends, but his conscience resisted such gross disinterest in two innocent lives. They could have no chance if he didn't go with them – though quite what chance would any of them have against the snow-monster?

He let out a sharp breath, mustered up his courage, and pushed away from the wagon.

'Are you joining us too, Mister Moore?'

'God alone knows why, but yes, sir.'

To his surprise, the Doctor laughed. He was some ways ahead of Miss Pollard and Zachariah, but he turned halfway around to say, 'Come along then. Keep up with Charley and you'll be all right.'

Keep up with Miss Pollard? His brow furrowed but he managed to hold his tongue. As if she, being a lady, could outpace him through knee-deep snow. He powered past her to break trail and ignored the exasperated outburst she offered when he did so. It was only right that _somebody_ should ease her way, if she was bound and determined to come along into the depths of the forest.

The deep snow made the going difficult and by the time they caught up with the Doctor, Zachariah's trousers were soaked through and he was exhausted, but he was determined not to show it. He had convinced himself that he was to blame for the three of them being this far from the safe familiarity of the camp, because he had not refused to tell the tale of Shad Pond. This and indeed all other thoughts were driven straight from his head, however, when he saw what had brought the Doctor up so short.

Seven men lay sprawled in the snow, strung neatly out in a single-file line, their limbs fixed in various self-protective attitudes. All were dead. He could see that at once. They had frozen to death and had done so very recently. All were also armed and carrying enough equipment to see them through days in the woods. Zachariah drew in a sharp, disbelieving breath. These men were soldiers. Their greatcoats and caps gave that away. He had heard rumours of Canadian militiamen scouting and patrolling too close to the northern logging camps, but until now he had never seen them himself.

'I don't think we need to ask what happened here,' the Doctor remarked as he went from body to body, pressing bare fingers to the neck of each one.

'Doctor, look!' Miss Pollard exclaimed, stumbling a little through the snow toward the last man in the file. The fellow was moving a little, one arm twitching just enough to be noticed. Zachariah and the Doctor were hard on Miss Pollard's heels, though while the Doctor knelt to check the soldier's pulse, Zachariah snatched the musket away from his unresisting grasp.

'He's alive but he needs warmth. He's severely hypothermic. We have to get him back to camp. Is there anything to – '

Zachariah let the musket drop to the snow before stooping beside the militiaman. The poor soul's face was tinged blue and the very tip of his nose was black, sure signs of frostbite. 'We can't hang around here. It will come back. It always does. Will you carry this, sir?' He passed the soldier's pack up to the Doctor then without a further word, got one shoulder beneath the man's chest. It took nearly a minute of jostling before the man's weight was balanced right across his shoulders but when Zachariah finally stood, just a little shakily, he felt he was ready.

'Are you sure you don't need help, Mister Moore?'

'We need to get out of here more, sir.' He was already slogging back along the trail they had broken, glad at least they had not come by a wandering route. This soldier was heavy and he was not the strongest of men. The Doctor and Miss Pollard were, he hoped, following. If they were not, however, he had no intention of returning to this place to fetch them. There was no safety anywhere if the snow beast appeared, but he was much happier to take his chances where there were buildings that might protect him.

He was staggering and bent nearly double by the time he finally got within sight of the camp. Only twenty more yards separated him from Mister Alfond's cabin. If he could just keep his feet moving forward – but the militiaman's weight was pressing him down and he could not manage more than two or three wavering steps before sagging to his knees. To rise again, with this burden, was beyond his power. Then suddenly the weight was gone, lifted cleanly from him.

Miss Pollard said, just a little tartly, 'You might've _asked_ us to help, you know.'

'Never mind that, Charley. Can you get up, Mister Moore? One of us needs to kindle a fire and I suspect you may be more successful at that than either of us.'

Getting to his feet was an action that required some concentration. Once he was standing, however, he found it less difficult to get moving again. The Doctor and Miss Pollard were carrying the militiaman between them, their hands linked together to form a makeshift chair that supported the man's legs and back. Zachariah had to push himself into a slow jog to draw level with then pass them.

Mister Alfond's cabin was neatly kept, he noted as he barged through the door. He spared the interior no second look and instead went straight to the hearth. It was easy enough work to get a small pile of kindling lit. Inside five minutes, a cheerful fire was blazing away in the fireplace. His companions had arrived with their unconscious burden in that time and with Zachariah's help were able to get him stripped of most of his snow-dampened clothes and thence bundled into Mister Alfond's bed.

'It’s a waiting game now, I’m afraid,' said the Doctor. 'His body will need to warm up considerably before he'll wake up. In the meantime, we should take a closer look at this cabin…'

There was something improper about searching a dead man’s belongings. Zachariah didn’t care for the idea one bit. But the Doctor and Miss Pollard were already going about the business, almost as if they had done this sort of thing before. The excuse he might have made, that they could all use something to eat so he should really fetch some supplies from the wagon, withered away unspoken. Instead, he stood in conflicted silence for several long seconds before deciding he may as well help them, distasteful task or not.

He set himself to the task of going through Mister Alfond’s small dresser of clothes, feeling that this was the least intrusive search he could possibly make. There was nothing to be found but shirts, trousers, and many pairs of thick wool socks. His lack of success was unhappily not to be shared.

Miss Pollard made a noise of triumph and declared, 'Look at these, Doctor.'

She was holding up two letters, which she had uncovered from the portable writing desk in the cabin’s far corner. The Doctor took the first one and opened it, his brow furrowing almost immediately.

'Of _course_ … it makes sense now…'

'Doctor?'

'Sir?'

The Doctor read the letter over a second time to himself, then began to read it aloud.

' ‘ _My dear Thibodeau,_  
 _I am instructed to inform you that the patience of our mutual friends is wearing thin. The delays in our current business are increasingly wearisome and I need not remind you that our mutual friends do not have the luxury of time in these matters. If we are to conclude this business to the satisfaction of all concerned, you must uphold your end of the bargain._

_'It is my understanding that you are once again bound for the timber country. If this is so, there must be no reason for further obstruction. You will be quite aware that considerable investment has been made in this affair and we all stand to lose everything we cherish if a successful outcome is not realised. I therefore urge you to do your utmost to resolve the difficulties you have claimed to have arisen, and to do so most speedily._

_'I await your positive report._

_'Your servant,_

_Edward Levesque._ ' '

'That is terribly cryptic, isn't it?' Miss Pollard observed.

The Doctor was still frowning. 'Oh I don't know. It seems remarkably clear to me. Mister Moore, you said the logging crews of this camp and Shad Pond have suffered the same fates: death by being frozen. You nearly met the same end. The scream it makes is what you made particular mention of, and which we have all heard now. When it screams, the air becomes deathly cold, cold enough to nearly freeze your blood, I believe you said? Yes, that makes sense indeed.'

'What _are_ you talking about, Doctor?'

'Isn't it obvious, Charley? Whatever creature is out there in the forest, this Thibodeau has some kind of control over it. He's used it to wipe out two logging crews, and judging by this letter, he intends to use it for something far more despicable. The pressing question is, what _is_ that something?'

Zachariah sank down into a nearby chair, his head a-whirl. He knew the name Levesque. He knew the man who bore the name, too. Levesque had been in Bangor only a fortnight before, in Mister Thibodeau's company. They were business partners, though clearly not all of their business was honest or even honourable. The letter all but proved it. What the Doctor was suggesting meant that Mister Thibodeau was far worse a man than even Zachariah had imagined. Who could willingly unleash such a creature as... as...

' _Giwakwa_ ,' he said suddenly, looking up.

'I beg your pardon?'

' _Giwakwa_. Mister Thibodeau's creature, it's called _giwakwa_.' He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying desperately to get his thoughts into order. Now that he had spoken, he had to offer everything he could remember for information. 'It... there's a Penobscot scout who was with us in camp when it first came. That's how I know its name. No Socks said it when we were hunkered down in Mister Trescott's cabin. 'He come when called', he said. I didn't understand what he meant then, but – '

'The first time? It came twice?'

Zachariah's right hand curled into a misshapen fist. 'Twice, sir. The second time was two weeks after the full crew got into camp. It was snowing wicked hard and Jacob LaVerdiere's dog was out somewhere in it. I was sent out to find him because I am – I _was_ – the greenhorn. There were tracks in the snow maybe half a mile from camp but they were a man's tracks. Two men were out in the woods too. Then suddenly that same terrible cold came. I tried to run from it but I don't know how far I got. The next thing I remember is waking up in the foreman's cabin. Mister Thibodeau came in later and told me all of what had happened. Well. He told me his version of what had happened.'

There was a pensive expression on the Doctor's face. He folded the letter he was still holding and laid it aside, then asked 'This No Socks. Was he in the camp when you encountered _giwakwa_ that second time?'

'No. Not that I saw. When I saw the two sets of tracks, I assumed it was a couple of the boys out looking for Porky, but I'm sure now it was No Socks and somebody else who made them. It may even have been Mister Thibodeau.' He realised his thoughts were wandering and tried again to marshal them. 'I still don't understand how it makes any sense for him to kill his own crews, sir. These were men who've worked for him for years. Except for me, that is. Yet I'm the only one of them who's still here.'

'Hmm.'

'Do you suppose you weren't _meant_ to survive?' Miss Pollard asked, and promptly blushed at how the question sounded. 'I mean, perhaps you were extraordinarily lucky?'

'Or perhaps this No Socks fellow is using you,' the Doctor mused. 'It may be that he is the one truly in control of _giwakwa_. It had two opportunities to see you dead and yet it did not. I would say that is more than mere luck, wouldn't you?'

'I don't – perhaps it is, but I don't care for what that implies,' said Zachariah with some feeling. 'I'm no man's pawn, sir.'

'Of course not, but that's how it appears. We have to wonder why though. Why has Mister Moore survived? Or more accurately, why does it benefit Thibodeau to leave a witness to all of this?'

Miss Pollard was frowning now too. 'It mustn’t, surely.'

'Mister Moore, what do you know about this Levesque fellow?'

Bewildered at the sudden change of subject, Zachariah could only stammer for a second. 'He’s a business partner of Mister Thibodeau’s. He owns a good bit of land across the border…' His voice trailed off when it occurred to him just what it was he was saying.

'What is it, Mister Moore?' The Doctor asked, eyeing him closely.

'Uh – well, Levesque owns land in Canada, sir. Quite a lot of it. He and Mister Thibodeau are both lumbermen. I think… well I have to wonder if this is all part of some business arrangement they’ve made.' He swallowed hard. 'All these border troubles mean folks've been wicked antsy. Nobody really trusts the Canadians. Word is they’ve been coming down and cutting on our side of the border. I’m wondering, sir, if Thibodeau and Levesque are encouraging that so they both profit off it. This camp’s the most northern that Thibodeau owns, so maybe he’s cleared it of our boys so Levesque can take it over.'

'You may very well be right, Mister Moore. It’s a nasty kind of deal, but greed makes people do nasty things.'

'I think you’re both missing something,' Miss Pollard put in. 'How does it suit anyone’s purposes to use this… snow monster to freeze people to death, when the only thing to be gained is a few miles of forest?'

'Ah but Charley, don’t forget there are soldiers in this part of the forest too. I rather think they’re here for more than just a Sunday stroll. Mister Moore. How far are we from the disputed border?'

He had to think about that for a second. 'Fifteen, sixteen miles, roughly, sir. No more than twenty, anyway.'

'An easy distance then. Hmm.'

'I’m not guiding anyone that far,' Zachariah warned.

'Oh – no, of course not. But so near to it, I suspect I can guess at why those soldiers were in the neighbourhood. It's strange that they should have been killed in the same way as the logging crews here, however. I don't know what to make of that.'

'Doctor. Perhaps... perhaps they weren't _meant_ to be here?' Miss Pollard suggested. 'They might have lost their way. Didn't it snow heavily here recently?'

'It has, Miss, but it's still a wicked risk for them to take. There's talk of the Army setting up an outpost near here. This patrol isn't the first to come too far south. This might be a sign of real trouble brewing.' The prospect of armed conflict wasn't one Zachariah relished, though it was unlikely he would be pressed to serve, not being able-bodied.

'Indeed? I wonder.' the Doctor was studying the supine militiaman on the bed by the fire. 'I have to go back to where we found this fellow. There is something we're missing here. Mister Moore, will you be so kind as to accompany me? I may need your woodsman's eye.'

'But I’m not – '

'Oh no, you're not leaving me behind, Doctor,' Miss Pollard said sharply, cutting off Zachariah’s own protest.

'We won't be long, Charley. Keep an eye on our friend while we're gone. Whenever you're ready, Mister Moore.'

This was an uncomfortable situation to be thrust into. The look on Miss Pollard's face was decidedly resentful and Zachariah was glad that she was not glaring daggers at him. He stood from the chair and crossed to the cabin door as unobtrusively as he could. He didn't like the idea of going back to where they had found the militia patrol, but the Doctor's tone warned him protest was futile. He pulled the cabin door shut behind him in time to cut off Miss Pollard's 'Now _really_ , Doctor – '

Once outside, he went straight for the buckboard. If they were going back out into the forest, he was determined to do so better equipped. Without his mittens, it was easier to work the knots loose and fold back the tarpaulin over the pile of supplies they'd brought. Travelling through unbroken snow was vastly easier with snowshoes. Hopefully the Doctor was no stranger to their use. After a slight hesitation, he also grabbed the sack of Navy beans.

'No time for dawdling, Mister Moore. Are those snowshoes? Splendid. Leave that sack in the wagon for later.' The Doctor seemed more brisk than he had only a few minutes ago, which Zachariah put down to the disagreement with Miss Pollard. He elected not to ask about it.

Instead, he offered one of the pairs of snowshoes and asked, 'Shouldn't I take in something for Miss Pollard to eat, sir?'

'Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. But quickly. I fear time may be against us.'

Zachariah hefted the sack of beans out of the wagon again. He wasn't convinced a proper lady would have any idea what to do with unprepared food but now was unfortunately not the time to offer detailed instructions. He made quick work of the delivery, advising that Miss Pollard fill up a kettle with clean snow for water, before hurrying back to join the Doctor. The fellow had already tied on his snowshoes, which neatly cleared away Zachariah's doubts about his knowledge.

'Let's be off,' said the Doctor, once Zachariah had gotten his own snowshoes on. He was, in fact, already striding off into the trees. This was a fool's errand and he was the greatest fool on Earth for going along with it. He was going to regret this. All the same, Zachariah grimaced and had to stretch his legs out in order to catch up with the Doctor, snow kicking up in great plumes behind him as he went.


	5. Chapter 5

'I don’t understand. They were all here.'

The Doctor stood in perplexed silence, surveying the heavily trampled snow where they had found the dead militiamen only a couple hours previously. There was now no sign of them. All that remained were many tracks, as if a group of men had passed through, but no more. Zachariah was no tracker but even he could see that someone had gone to a lot of trouble to cover up what had happened here.

'Very strange. Very strange indeed. But also very clever. Do you see it, Mister Moore?'

'See what, sir?'

The Doctor gestured at the trampled-down the snow. 'Not one of these tracks is unique, which would be expected from a group of heavily loaded men. They are instead the same size and shape, which suggests they belong to only one person.'

Zachariah frowned. 'But that doesn't make sense, sir. How could only one man carry all these fellows away in only two hours?'

This was apparently a foolish question, judging by the grin on the Doctor's face. 'Isn't it obvious? _Giwakwa_. It must be a creature of immense strength, in addition to everything else. Hmmm. I wonder...'

'Oh no, sir. I'm not tracking that beast anywhere. It's not even wise to be out this far from camp. We'd better start heading back.'

'What is there to fear? It is long gone. Whatever purpose it is serving out here, it will not be returning to this spot, I think. I want to have a look around.' The Doctor lifted an eyebrow at him. 'Surely you are not afraid of the forest itself, Mister Moore?'

'You can bet I am, sir,' Zachariah told him flatly. 'I'm in no hurry to end up frozen rock solid just for the sake of curiosity. We'd do better to go back.'

'Just a moment.' The Doctor had turned his attention to the tramped-down snow, which he was studying intently. There was no telling what he was either looking for or seeing. 'There must be some reason for carrying the bodies away. Is it to hide the evidence of what happened here? Or maybe it’s – '

A thought came to Zachariah as the older man spoke. It was not a thought he liked. 'Sir,' he interrupted. 'Whoever did this may know there were seven soldiers in the group originally, and so will have noted one was missing. The one we carried back to camp.'

This observation caused the Doctor to look up sharply, an expression of concern and perhaps even fear coming onto his face. 'And we left a trail straight there. We have to get back at once.'

He was off running back down the trail before he’d even finished speaking. Zachariah did not catch up to him until the Doctor was halfway back to camp. Quite where the fellow found the stamina to fly through deep snow like that, even with snowshoes, defied understanding. Zachariah’s legs burned and his lungs were bursting. This was far more exertion than he was used to. Yet, at the same time, the idea of danger possibly being close fired his blood.

The Doctor was thrashing his way over the last dozen yards into the camp's clearing when Zachariah heard somebody shout 'Stop there, sir!'

He stumbled to a stop as quickly as he could, not knowing from where the command had come. The voice was familiar, though. Who could... a chill went down his spine. Who else could it be? That was Thibodeau's voice. The very man responsible for all of this. A strange feeling gripped him, seeming to squeeze his heart and stir him back into motion. He did not see that the Doctor had come to a halt at the very edge of camp until he nearly ploughed squarely into his back. As it was, Zachariah had to dig his heels into the snow to bring himself back to a stop, his efforts briefly obscuring the Doctor from view amid a glistening cloud of snow.

As the air cleared, he saw Thibodeau standing near the corral, a musket in his hands. He was dressed for travelling and it did not take much thought to decide where the old lumberjack had been. Zachariah's hands curled unconsciously into fists. It galled him to acknowledge he had wanted so badly to be like Robert Thibodeau.

'Who are you, and what is your business here, sir?' Thibodeau demanded of the Doctor, the musket drawn in tightly to his shoulder in clear readiness to be used. He did not look at Zachariah, which only deepened the resentment he felt.

The Doctor seemed remarkably cool in the face of such an obvious threat. 'I'm the Doctor. I'm here to see you, as it happens. You _are_ Robert Thibodeau, I presume?'

There was open suspicion on Thibodeau's bearded face. 'Doctor? Doctor who?'

'Smith,' was the reply. 'Would you mind putting the gun away? I have business to discuss with you and I don't care to do so when weapons are involved. It's hazardous to my health, you understand.'

'That's the whole idea,' Thibodeau retorted, but he grudgingly let the flint down all the same. He did not yet lower the musket itself and Zachariah found himself wondering if he could cross the distance between them quickly enough to get to Thibodeau before he could recock the gun and fire. Probably not; his legs felt like jelly and too many yards stood between them. He was not in any hurry to get himself shot.

'What's this business you're talking about, Doctor... Smith?'

The Doctor smiled and said, 'I've been sent to ensure that everything here goes smoothly, which it has not been. Certain people are anxious to see this business resolved, as I am sure you're aware.'

'Everything is well in hand,' Thibodeau replied curtly. 'I don't need a nursemaid to manage this particular affair. You may go back to Saint John and tell Levesque that, word for word.'

'Ah but he has heard that before, and I daresay he no longer believes it. But we should continue this conversation indoors, where it's warm.'

Thibodeau didn't move and neither did the musket. 'What were you doing out in the woods, Doctor? And why is the whelp here?'

Zachariah twitched forward, goaded into motion by the insult, but the Doctor laid a hand quickly onto his shoulder to keep him still. 'Mister Moore was good enough to guide myself and my companion here from town. I had thought to find you there instead. Shall we...?'

'You'll answer my first question: What were you doing out in the woods?'

'Ah, that. Yes. Ah. Well. I have never worn snowshoes before, and Mister Moore offered to instruct me in their use. They are remarkably simple devices, are they not?'

'Yes, I suppose they are.' Thibodeau regarded the Doctor closely, his suspicion unhidden. If he didn’t believe what he was being told, they were in trouble. 'Why, may I ask, are you so anxious to get indoors? It isn’t that cold today. Are there perhaps more of you here?'

He knew. He _knew_. God have mercy. Zachariah’s gaze flicked to the trail they had broken earlier, when all three of them had gone to investigate the _giwakwa_ scream. It didn’t seem to him that there was any obvious sign that three people were here, but of course he didn’t have Thibodeau’s expert eye.

'As it happens, there are,' replied the Doctor. 'My companion is in that cabin, where it’s warm and dry. She had no interest in prancing around in the snow, you see.'

'She?' There was an instant change in Thibodeau's tone. The musket barrel lifted as he dropped the brass-capped butt from his shoulder, gripping it in one hand as he crossed the yard to the foreman's cabin. Both the Doctor and Zachariah were quick to start after him but they were not quick enough to prevent the lumberjack from flinging the door open and barging unceremoniously into the cabin.

'Good God, man!' Thibodeau barked, cutting off Miss Pollard's indignant cry of protest at his ill-mannered entrance. 'What in the hell were you thinking, bringing a woman out here?'

'I _beg_ your pardon, sir,' Miss Pollard snapped in reply. 'But I can go wherever I like, thank you!'

'Yes – ' The Doctor beat Zachariah into the cabin by a mere three strides. Their snowshoes clattered noisily over the wood floor but no one seemed to notice. Indeed, everyone's attention was on Thibodeau, who shook himself from his momentary stupor with astonishing swiftness when he laid eyes on the blanket-swathed form on the bed by the fire. The musket was immediately in his shoulder and the flint drawn fully back.

'What is that man doing here?'

'We came across him shortly after we arrived here,' the Doctor explained with admirable coolness. 'He was severely hypothermic but is now, I hope, warming up again. Miss Pollard has been looking after him. Do you know him?'

'I do not. But I know his type. Soldiers are not welcome here.' The musket swivelled, lifting from the unconscious soldier in the bed to point once more in the Doctor's direction. 'You will oblige me by removing him and yourselves from this camp directly. I don't believe you, any of you, are what you claim. Outside, everyone. This instant, if you please.'

'I don't think that's a good idea,' said the Doctor.

'I think it's an excellent idea,' Thibodeau replied.

'Doctor,' Miss Pollard broke in. 'It's snowing!'

Zachariah's snowshoes scraped over the floor as he spun around to stare out the open cabin door. Her declaration was correct. Snow was drifting almost lazily down from the leaden sky. The sight made him shiver. He knew entirely too well what happened up here when it snowed. He was never more ready to leave this place than right then. Meeting _giwakwa_ a third time was not at all appealing to him.

'Sir, we'd better go,' he said.

'I think not. We're right where we should be. Is that not so, Mister Thibodeau?'

'Out the door, sir. I've never shot a man of a medicine but you're welcome to be the first.'

The Doctor was unmoved, though Miss Pollard was fidgeting, plainly unnerved by the standoff. She had good reason to be worried, Zachariah thought. Robert Thibodeau had already proven to have no qualms about taking the lives of other men. He should do something but his brain felt incapable of any other thought beyond flight. His hands flexed and relaxed at his sides as he tried to muster up the mental clarity to take positive action. _Something_ had to be done, damn it...

'It isn't in your interests for us to go. We are witnesses to what has been happening in these logging camps. I, certainly, will have problem talking about all of it when we get back to town. On the other hand, keeping us here means that this whole mess stays out of the newspapers. I think that is – '

To Zachariah's surprise, Thibodeau laughed. 'You assume I intend to allow you to make it back to town. No, Doctor Smith, that is far from my intention. It is indeed snowing and I do indeed know what happens in these parts when the snow falls. Do you suppose that is a coincidence?' He nodded toward the supine militiaman. 'I hold no ill will toward anyone here except that fellow. It's a shame to send all of you into the cold but I must. He will go with you and if you are wise, you will leave him to his fate.'

'What will happen if we refuse?'

'I believe you can guess that, sir.'

'Hmm.' The Doctor regarded the musket pointing at him with a thoughtful frown, then said, 'It appears that we're supposed to die either way. I prefer to have a choice in how I meet my end, you know, so it's kind of you to offer one. Mister Moore, we should get our sleeping friend to the wagon. If you'll open the door first... _now_ , Charley!'

Miss Pollard flung a shirt in Thibodeau's direction, which he turned squarely into as he whirled around to face her. Zachariah needed no instruction as to his own action. He lunged for the musket barrel and on catching hold of it, heaved on it with all his might. It was sheer luck for him that Thibodeau had swept his right hand upward to swat away the wadded-up linen shirt, because he was no match for the older man, strength for strength.

Having wrested the musket away from his former employer, Zachariah turned it around on him. That he had next to no idea how to use the weapon was entirely irrelevant. There was also one other problem. He lacked the fingers on his right hand to keep a solid grip on the narrow part of the stock behind the trigger – a fact that must be obvious to Thibodeau, who was indeed studying him closely. Zachariah took a step back and hoped that if the lumberjack made a grab for the musket, he'd be able to fire it in time to stop him.

'I think you should sit down, Mister Thibodeau,' said the Doctor with almost maddening calm. 'We need to have a chat.'

Thibodeau made a point of not budging. 'I don't care to discuss things when there are weapons involved.'

'Clever. Will you sit down? Mister Moore has no intention of shooting you, I'm sure.'

Didn't he? Zachariah kept his finger around the trigger, unwilling to surrender the one advantage they had. Before him stood the bastard who had destroyed good men, for no better cause than his own greed. 'You were told to sit down, sir,' he said stonily, annoyed at Thibodeau's lack of movement.

'Aren't you a brave one now.' Thibodeau crossed casually to the nearest chair and sat down. His contempt was obvious. 'Well then, Doctor Smith. I am sitting. Does that satisfy your wishes?'

'You can put that down now, Mister Moore. Thank you.' The Doctor was crouching even as he spoke, untying the laces so he could remove his snowshoes. 'I think we misunderstand each other's purposes here. Yours is pretty plain, I have to say. You are trying to provoke a border war. There is a great deal of forestable land being disagreed over and I believe you own a considerable portion of that land. This dispute means you can't do any logging on that land without attracting trouble from either side.'

'Is that so, sir? How might I, acting alone, achieve such a thing?'

The Doctor smiled. 'You haven't been acting alone any point, have you? Edward Levesque has been supporting you from Saint John and No Socks the Penobscot has done the same here. It is No Socks' doing that brought _giwakwa_ into the picture, I believe, and given you the means to stir up the trouble that will lead to war.'

Zachariah, leaning on the musket now, noted the slight twitch when Thibodeau heard the Doctor mention _giwakwa_. It made him wonder. What the Doctor was saying was more awful than their previous discussions had been, but it made complete sense as well. But what purpose did _giwakw_ a play? It seemed the Doctor knew somehow. Quite how was anyone's guess.

'You offer a great deal of presumption, sir,' Thibodeau said with deliberate cool.

'Do I? Let's consider your reaction to the soldier there. He is not someone you wished to see here – never mind, I think, alive – which makes one suspect you know that a Canadian militia patrol was in the area. We all know what has happened to the men of this camp. The same thing happened to those soldiers, except for this one. Interestingly, the bodies of those soldiers have since disappeared. I have to wonder why that was necessary and can only think that they will be discovered somewhere else, where they truly should not be.'

'That's an interesting hypothesis. What is your proof?'

'The presence of tracks that were made by no Earthly creature. I'm no woodsman but even I know what a man-made footprint looks like. The work of your _giwakwa_ is obvious. What is not obvious is how or where those poor men will be found again.' The Doctor was frowning. 'The same uncertainty applies to your logging crews. Where will their bodies be moved to, how will they be found after they're moved, and what purpose is served by their deaths to begin with?'

To everyone's surprise, Thibodeau began to laugh. 'You'll excuse me for being amused. You offer a lot of supposition in place of proof, sir. All you have is the presence of animal tracks in the snow. It's no secret that Levesque and I are business partners and we both own a good deal of land between us, but those facts have nothing to do with what you suggest. It will hardly benefit me or Levesque for war to break out. Who will work in a place where there is fighting? Lumberjacks are brave men but they're not stupid.'

'It isn't all just supposition,' the Doctor countered. He produced Levesque's letter from his pocket. 'There is this. I think our Canadian friend will have something of his own to say as well, once he awakens. There are also the lumberjacks in this camp and at Shad Pond. They are all buried beneath snowdrifts to hide them. We can go outside to uncover some of them if you have doubts.'

'Doctor!' Miss Pollard cut in, her gaze on the window behind her companion. 'Look!'

Zachariah turned toward the window to see what she was pointing at, and in doing so, thoughtlessly presented his back to Thibodeau. The silver-haired lumberjack didn't waste the opportunity. He lunged up from the chair at Zachariah, catching the youngster entirely by surprise. In a heartbeat, the musket was wrenched from his grip and he was knocked soundly the floor. But instead of using the recaptured firelock, Thibodeau elected to make his escape. Miss Pollard scarcely had time to cry out a warning before Thibodeau was gone through the door, his long legs carrying him effortlessly out of reach toward the corral.

'Well,' said the Doctor, shaking his head. 'I think that answers the question of guilt, doesn't it?'

'Hadn't we get out of here too, Doctor?' Miss Pollard asked. 'He's surely going to get more soldiers or something and come back.'

From where he lay sprawled and a little dazed on the floor, Zachariah said, 'It won't be soldiers he comes back with, Miss. It'll be _giwakwa_. We should leave here, sir. Sooner the better.'

The Doctor offered him a hand to help him get up. 'I don't think so. This is all close to coming to an end. Besides, it seems to be snowing harder now. I don't like our chances of getting back to town until tomorrow. You might as well take those off, Mister Moore. We won't be going outside for a while.'

Oh. Right. Zachariah stooped to remove his snowshoes, which were as much to blame for his being so easily toppled over as anything else. 'I don't like the idea of staying here the night, sir. Not with giwakwa out there. But I can't very well leave the pair of you here, either. I don't think either of you knows how to even make coffee.'

'Well now really!' Miss Pollard exclaimed.

His bravado could not be so easily accepted, Zachariah thought, but he was not about to show how afraid he truly was. The Doctor cast a speculative glance at him but said nothing to him. Instead, he addressed Miss Pollard with a question: 'What did you see out the window, Charley?'

'A man. He was dark skinned, I think. He was only there for a moment.'

'No Socks.' Zachariah said the name with firm distaste. All at once, his flimsy interest in staying here collapsed. 'We need to leave, sir. Immediately. If No Socks is around, so is _giwakwa_. It'll come for all of us in the dark.'

'We won't get far in this weather,' the Doctor pointed out. 'I agree that we may be in danger to stay here, but there is warmth, food, and shelter here. We can't abandon this fellow either.'

'The horses can get us through this, sir,' Zachariah protested. 'They're up for it. It won't take more than ten minutes to hitch them up again and we can be off.'

'Surely we could chance it, Doctor. Even a snow monster can't follow two horses moving quickly,' Miss Pollard put in.

The Doctor shook his head. 'Can either of you be sure of not losing the way? Or that the wagon won't break a runner or something? The last thing we need is to end up lost and stranded. No, we're staying here until the storm is over.'

The question was a fair one but he still bristled. Staying here was going to get them killed. But there was no sense in arguing. The Doctor's tone and expression made that clear enough. Zachariah set his snowshoes by the door with a frustrated _thump_. It was tempting to go outside, harness the team, and simply leave these two to their fates. Anyone would be considering it. At the same time, basic humanity demanded he stay. So, stay he would. Grudgingly.

'If we're staying, we'll need something more than plain beans for supper. I'll be back in a minute.' He pulled his wool cap down lower over his ears and ducked quickly out the door. It was indeed snowing nicely. It wasn't cold but he could already feel his fingers begin to tingle with chilly pain. The wagon was hard to make out across the yard through the thick curtain of white. If he hustled, he could get to it, grab what he needed, and be back in the cabin before his fingers and toes got too cold.

He made it four strides into the open when a shape appeared out of the falling snow. It was No Socks. Zachariah stumbled to a stop but before he could beat a retreat to the cabin, No Socks was on him, grabbing his arm with an iron grip.

'You do not go,' the Penobscot growled. 'Tibb, he go. But you do not.'

'Don't think I don't want to,' snapped Zachariah.

'You have soldier in there. Soldier must die. If you go, you do not die. Go.'

He shook his arm in a futile attempt to wrench it out of No Socks' grasp. 'Get off'n me. We'll go when the weather's clear.'

No Socks released him and disappeared into the storm without another word. Rattled, Zachariah took a moment to gather his courage before he ran the remaining distance to the wagon. 


	6. Chapter 6

'Good heavens, look at it snow!' Miss Pollard exclaimed when at last Zachariah did return, stamping snow off his boots and nearly dropping the sake of coffee from under his arm. The Doctor shut the cabin door firmly behind him, while Miss Pollard rescued the coffee before it could slip free and fall.

'That's winter in Maine for you, Miss,' Zachariah remarked, setting the cask of salt pork onto the empty chair beside the table. With some reluctance, he pulled off his snow-dampened mittens, cap, and coat, and went to lay them on the floor by the hearth so they could dry.

'Next time, Doctor, let's go somewhere warm,' she said to her companion.

'Of course, Charley. I know just the place. But first... is there anything we can do to help, Mister Moore?'

'Not really, sir. How's that Canadian fellow doing?'

'Still asleep. He feels warmer, though.' The answer came from Miss Pollard, who had resumed her seat by the bed. The Doctor, Zachariah noticed, appeared to prefer standing by the window, though there was little to see through the heavily falling snow. Perhaps he was less confident than he made out.

'It should clear by morning, sir,' he said with forced optimism, as he hefted Mister Alfond's small cooking kettle to the door so he could scoop snow into it. 'I'll get us on the road just after sunup. We'll be back in Bangor by nightfall.'

'Hmm. Tell me, Mister Moore. How long will it take before anyone in these two camps will be missed in town?'

Zachariah looked up with a frown. 'Days at least, sir. We're far enough north that supply wagons only come about once a week. This storm'll keep people away for a while too.'

'What are you thinking, Doctor?'

'All of this seems remarkably well-timed, doesn't it? The logging crews dying, those soldiers passing through, this storm... it isn't all mere coincidence. It can't be. There's a piece to this puzzle missing and I can't figure out what it is.'

The kettle clanked as Zachariah set it over the fire. 'The storm is the only thing that's coincidence , sir. No man can predict the weather. Mister Thibodeau's behind everything else though, we can't deny that.'

'Perhaps. I do wonder if – is that kettle leaking?'

Zachariah glanced over, one arm shoved through the sleeve of his coat. It was not dry yet but he was feeling a distinct chill. 'It shouldn't be, sir. Why – ?' But he could see what the Doctor meant. The fire was guttering, like something wet was dripping on it. Nothing should be coming down the chimney though. He was as sure as he could be that the kettle was sound. Which meant...

'It's cold in here, Doctor,' Miss Pollard complained, wrapping up in a heavy cloak. 'The fire's going down.'

' _Giwakwa_ ,' said Zachariah. He grabbed up his mittens and cap, but the mittens were still sodden. He had to let them drop again. The cabin was definitely feeling colder and the fire was dying fast. Damn. He squeezed his hands into fists, trying to ward off the chill swiftly setting in, then grabbed for a couple split logs near the hearth. If he could build the fire up again, even a little, it might not go out.

'Wrap yourself up, Charley! As warm as you can. Here, Mister Moore. Get that on.'

Zachariah paused only long enough to get his coat on properly. 'We should have gotten away while we had the chance, sir.'

'Too late for that now,' the Doctor admonished brusquely. He had pulled a blanket around his shoulders but didn't otherwise seem as concerned about the cold. ' _Giwakwa_ creates cold. We have to fight it. Heat wards off cold, yes? If we build the fire up enough, we might be able to drive it off.'

God help them if this didn't work. Zachariah hefted a log into the fireplace, stepping aside to let Miss Pollard drop another in. Her face was pale and her movements restrained, both signs that the cold was definitely worsening. Frost was curling its way up the glass covering of the oil lamp near the bed by the hearth. His gaze fell on it by accident but the sight meant that _giwakwa_ was very close. The lamp's light had dimmed down to nothing and even as he watched, the flame went out. His fingers were already numb and stiff, and he dropped a log with a crash, unable to keep a grip on it.

'The fire, Mister Moore!'

'I can't, sir!' His fingers were like ice, the colour draining from them as his body reacted to the rapidly deepening cold. It was sapping his strength with equal speed, but he still tried to get a grip on the log. No such luck. 'I can't feel my hands or feet, sir.'

The Doctor blundered into him, managing to grab the fallen log and flop it up into the fireplace. There was a small, stubborn flame in the very depths of the pile of logs. Getting it to rekindle was impossible, unless... Zachariah's clumsy, frozen hands groped for the oil lamp and managed, miraculously, to get a half-solid grip on it. He lobbed it as accurately at the pile of logs as he could. The oil in the lamp's reservoir trickled down over the logs, some of it freezing to the wood, but a few precious drops dripped into the tiny flickering flame beneath it all.

'More oil! Charley, get that lamp!' The Doctor had snatched up another lamp, which he flung unceremoniously into the fireplace. Glass tinkled dully as the lamp cover shattered, but this lamp was more full. Its oil dribbled steadily down to the guttering little flame and offered it life. Zachariah was on his knees by the hearth, stricken into immobility by the ice that seemed to have settled into his muscles. His right hand in particular was a frozen claw, all sensation in it lost. Sheer self-preservative instinct caused him to curl up as best he could into a ball, to conserve body heat, but he could already feel his blood beginning to turn to sludge in his veins.

And yet, somehow, Miss Pollard and the Doctor were still fighting. A fourth lamp – the last – crashed into the fireplace, lending its oil to the strengthening fire. How could they stand this terrible, crippling cold? Perhaps they were simply made of hardier stuff than he. Or perhaps not. Miss Pollard was faltering, stumbling against the bed and dropping the bottle of lamp oil she had found somewhere. Zachariah squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see her skin turn blue then black, as he knew his own must be doing. Frostbite and cold had nearly killed him once, and now it would succeed.

There was heat from the fireplace now, though. Not a lot, but as the flames lapped their way up the oil-streaked logs, the temperature nearest the hearth was climbing. 'Anything that will burn, get it into the fire!' The Doctor cried, clumsily flinging some shirts into the growing fire.

A little precious warmth was seeping back into him. Zachariah felt his left arm slowly begin to thaw, searing icy needles of pain sinking in deep as his muscles soaked up the fire's heat. The pain was worst in his veins as his blood began to flow just a little more freely. But he could just move his left hand, and he was beginning to shiver again – he would never have imagined he'd be glad for that!

Miss Pollard bundled a chair into the fire, which was now hungrily licking its way up the logs that had been piled atop each other. 'It isn't enough, Doctor,' she said.

'The cabin!' Zachariah rasped. 'Burn the cabin!' If he could get off his knees, he could help. There was nothing but pain and ice in his right arm and leg, however, and the best he could do was to shuffle himself closer to the fire. He was of no use to anyone unless he regained the feeling and use of all his limbs. If he could just get his right hand to uncurl, at least...

'But we're _in_ the cabin!' Miss Pollard protested.

'We can go to the crew's lodging house,' the Doctor said. He seemed to have caught on to Zachariah's thinking. 'Come on, throw in everything you can carry.'

He could just about flex both hands, though his fingers burned with an icy fire as blood began to flow back into them. Could he stand? No, not yet. His legs lacked the strength still. The best he could do was to half-ably fling small items into the ravenous fire as they were passed to him. The heat being thrown off by the fire was singeing his hair and eyebrows, but it felt marvellous on his previously-chilled skin.

The fire was spilling out of the hearth now, burning pieces of clothing and wood falling to the floor where they would soon set the floorboards alight. Zachariah forced himself to stand, despite his feet still being no better than blocks of ice, and staggered away from the flames. The whole idea was to burn the cabin, not himself.

'The bed! Get that fellow off the bed!'

It was sheer luck that the Doctor remembered the Canadian militiaman. There wasn't much strength in him and his arms and legs were trembling badly, but still Zachariah fumbled for the bottommost blanket so he could pull the unconscious soldier onto the floor. His efforts did little, until Miss Pollard and the Doctor came to his aid.

Between the three of them, it was just possible to drag the soldier and his pile of blankets across the floor to the door. Behind them, the fire was spreading, its heat overcoming the extreme cold. The flames moved more swiftly as the air warmed and the smoke was thickening, making it hard to breathe. Zachariah’s badly-chilled lungs were struggling to draw in even half a breath, but somehow he found it in him to tug at the latch so the door could be dragged open.

It took four or five great heaves before they made it safely outside, sliding and tumbling into the snow and the blessedly smoke-free air. It was not until he was sprawled, chest heaving, in the snow that he realised the crippling cold had disappeared. He was not sure he could believe it yet it was so. The air was still crisp but crisp in the way that only a natural snowstorm could manage. Zachariah found that he was heartily glad for what amounted to warmth even in the winter.

'You do not go,' a flat voice declared from close by. It was No Socks, appearing wraith-like through the thickly falling snow. 'Why do you not go?'

The Doctor picked himself up off the ground. His coat was so covered with snow that he seemed to wear it like a cape. 'You must be No Socks.'

'That is white man name for me,' the Penobscot acknowledged blandly before again asking, 'Why do you not go?'

'I am the Doctor. We don't go because we don't want to.'

There was a tug on the blanket-shrouded Canadian as Miss Pollard, now also standing, tried to haul him forward. Without help, she had little chance of budging the man's weight and Zachariah belatedly stirred himself, getting shakily to his feet so he could lend what strength he could to the work of dragging the poor fellow through the snow toward the bunkhouse. It was slow going without the Doctor's help, but his attention was focussed on No Socks and Zachariah could not quite imagine why.

'Is he always like this?' He grunted, trying to squeeze just one more effort from his protesting muscles.

'Maddening, isn't it?'

That was one word for it, certainly. Zachariah glanced over his shoulder and saw the Doctor was only then coming to help. Unbelievably, No Socks was following him. The Penobscot said nothing as he took hold of one corner of the pile of blankets and helped half-drag, half-carry the unfortunate militiaman to the bunkhouse. What had brought that about? Could the Indian even be trusted? In the moment, it seemed he could, for once at the bunkhouse he helped haul their burden inside and onto the nearest empty bunk. Once this was done, however, No Socks retreated outside, all without a single word.

'This storm will ease soon,' said the Doctor with some satisfaction. He was brushing snow off the shoulders of his coat while Zachariah and Miss Pollard laid claim to dry blankets to help warm themselves better.

'Sir...?'

'Our new friend assures me the snow will stop before morning,' he explained. 'We were able to reach an agreement. Of sorts. Let's go back outside a moment. It's best for him to explain.'

Going outside again was not a prospect Zachariah cared much for, now that most of the feeling was returning to his extremities. Going outside to listen to No Socks rationalise his role in all of this was even less attractive an idea. But Miss Pollard was crossing to the door and he realised that if he wanted any answers at all, he had to follow as well. Outside, the snow was still coming down heavily, making it impossible to see more than a few yards. Only the burning foreman's cabin was bright enough to be visible and its glow tainted the pure white snowfall a gleaming, almost sickly, shade of orange.

No Socks had apparently been waiting for them. He almost seemed relieved to see that they had come out, which struck Zachariah as strange. 'Tibb want that man dead,' he said with a short nod toward the bunkhouse. 'But Tibb tells lies. He say, help him fight men who come from across Saint John river. He say, he will give back land to No Socks' people. But he lies.'

'I don't think anyone's surprised by that,' Zachariah retorted.

'I find this in Tibb's pocket,' No Socks went on, ignoring him. He held out a small bundle of papers, which the Doctor took and slid at once inside his coat to keep snow from dampening it. 'He admit his lie. He will never lie again.'

'Do you mean that you – ' Miss Pollard began.

The smile on No Socks' face was grotesque. 'Tibb paid for his lies. I made him. Now all is over.'

'Not quite,' the Doctor corrected. He did not seem very surprised by No Socks' tale. 'Tell me, since you appear to control this creature called _giwakwa_ , what exactly it _is_?'

This question cleared the smile off No Socks' face, for which Zachariah was most grateful. ' _Giwakwa_ not to be talked of.'

'Oh come now. Thibodeau's treachery, his lies, could not have happened without _giwakwa_ 's help. And yours, of course. What exactly is it?'

No Socks studied the Doctor for several long seconds, clearly mulling this question over. It didn't seem like anything that needed such involved thought. Zachariah could not imagine there was much of a secret as to what _giwakwa_ was anyway. They all knew by now. It was an enormous furred abomination that killed men by freezing them solid. What the Doctor should be asking was how such a beast could be destroyed.

At length, No Socks replied, ' _Giwakwa_ become _giwakwa_ by doing great evil. He pay for great evil in this way. Tibb lie to him too. He say, help him fight and he will be free. But Tibb lies.'

Zachariah's eyebrows lifted. That was not a response he could ever have expected. He at once rejected the notion that such a terrible creature as giwakwa could have once been human. It was simply not possible. 'That's nonsense,' he said, shaking his head and sending snow cascading down his back.

'Hush, Mister Moore,' the Doctor chided. 'No Socks. How might _giwakwa_ be freed?'

'He must spit out his frozen heart,' was the reply. 'He only do this if great kindness done to him. Tibb promised this but he lie.'

'Hmm.' The Doctor pursed his lips thoughtfully.

'What are those papers you found?' Miss Pollard wanted to know.

'Ah, yes – ' her companion thrust a hand into his coat and pulled the little bundle out again, now ignoring the large snowflakes that landed and immediately melted on the paper and his hands. He opened the first folded paper, read it, and whistled.

'What is it, Doctor?'

It took a moment before an answer came. 'This is a letter from Edward Levesque. Let's go inside, before snow blots out the ink too badly.' He was already halfway into the bunkhouse even as he spoke, such was his obvious excitement.

The others followed after a hesitation, Zachariah with curious wariness and No Socks with obvious reluctance. Only Miss Pollard seemed untroubled and even keen, but she had to be used to this sort of thing, surely. She must be made of sterner stuff than he'd first suspected.

'A light, please, Mister Moore,' said the Doctor.

Zachariah grimaced but looked around for a lamp, which he managed after a short fumbling struggle to get lit. The flame was weak and smoky, but it offered just enough light to allow the Doctor to read the letter he held. They waited.


	7. Chapter 7

' _"My dear Thibodeau,_

 _'Enclosed you will find the promised article which ought to satisfy my part of the agreement. Payment having now been rendered, it falls entirely to you to ensure that this business proceeds to its successful conclusion. You have much to do in very little time. Send word when the desired result has been achieved."_ '

The Doctor was grinning. 'It's signed by Levesque. I should like to meet this fellow, he seems quite interesting.'

'Small chance of that, sir, unless you go up there on your own. I'm not going anywhere north of here,' Zachariah told him. He could not see anything amusing or interesting in that short letter. To him, it was nothing more than the rewarding of wilful murder.

'Oh I have no intention of going any further north, Mister Moore. No doubt Levesque will not stray this far over the border himself either. It's a shame. But. It appears that letter refers to this,' he had unfolded and silently read a second letter, which he now held up. 'This is a deed for some three thousand acres of land. It seems to be the payment for Thibodeau's services, if that is the best word for it.'

Zachariah whistled. Three thousand acres. That was quite a parcel of land indeed. Thibodeau could hardly need _more_ land though. He owned enough to live comfortably as it was, surely. 'I don't understand. He's got enough forestable acreage to not need more, especially not that much more.'

'Greed, Mister Moore. It turns people into monsters.' The Doctor pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'This second letter is even more interesting. It is an official endorsement of Thibodeau to act 'with the full authority and in the name of the New Brunswick Assembly'. We can perhaps safely assume that this deed is less payment and more a bribe to get him to act for what amounts as the enemy.'

Miss Pollard had taken the second letter from him to read it for herself. 'I wonder if Levesque is not simply a landowner. He writes like he has legitimate power. Do you suppose he is part of the New Brunswick Assembly?'

'Quite possibly, Charley. It would make sense. Ah! Robert Thibodeau had influential friends indeed. This letter here informs him that three companies of militia are on their way through the disputed territory, to meet him at 'the agreed upon place', which I think we can suppose means this camp. There's no mention when they're expected to arrive, but I suspect this storm will delay them.'

'We had better clear out of here before they do arrive,' said Zachariah. 'Soldiers mean trouble.'

The Doctor had begun shaking his head before Zachariah was even finished speaking. 'We're much better off staying here. Besides. If we leave and these soldiers find an empty camp, there's no guarantee they'll just shrug and go home. They've come this far for a specific purpose, which only Thibodeau knew. I don't want to leave here until I know what that purpose is. Whatever is happening here has to be stopped.'

'Send _giwakwa_ after them then, sir. That will take care of the problem wicked quick.'

'Absolutely not, Mister Moore,' was the firm retort. 'I think we can resolve all of this peacefully, for both sides. That means we're staying here.'

Zachariah regarded him with open disbelief. 'You're out of your mind, sir.'

'That's uncalled for – '

'It's all right, Charley. You're welcome to go if you're that determined, Mister Moore. You may have the best chance at getting back to town out of all of us anyway.'

A glance at No Socks, who was standing in rigid, impassive silence by the bunkhouse door, offered no support. To get out of here and back to the safety of Bangor was what he wanted above all else now, yet he could not help feeling an abiding insistent urge to see this mess to the end. Did he value his own life over the lives of everyone else currently in the camp? If the matter was considered in those terms, he was very much prepared to let them try their luck on their own.

'Before you go, Mister Moore, let me just ask you. How do you suppose it will look when you get back to town without Charley or me with you? Particularly when it's discovered that the men of these two camps are all dead?' The Doctor's tone was calm enough but carried a hint of steel. His questions painted a picture that Zachariah immediately disliked and yet had to acknowledge was entirely plausible. If he did go back to Bangor unaccompanied, few eyebrows would be raised initially, until the weekly supply wagon service resumed and news came back about these two camps. It would also be noted that the two people he had driven north were absent, since he was positive neither the Doctor nor Miss Pollard would hang around here very long.

'Damn you, sir,' he said, though without much heat.

It seemed that this answer was fully expected, for it was ignored. 'Charley, will you check on our sleeping friend? I believe we'll need him, and need him alive, soon. No Socks, if I can, ah, impose on you a little. Can you, um, leave? It will only be suspicious if you and _giwakwa_ are anywhere nearby. Wait. You had better take this – ' the Doctor held out one of the folded papers to him. 'I'll explain why later.'

The Penobscot offered no reply. Instead, he went out through the door on silent feet. It was utterly impossible to know what he thought of this whole business but if he was honest, Zachariah didn't much care. He was still smarting at the neat way the Doctor had turned his desire for self-preservation so soundly against him.

'Mister Moore. Since you're staying, I need your help. Charley, this goes for you too. When these soldiers get here, you must under no circumstances say anything about having seen Robert Thibodeau. As far as we all know, he's not here and hasn't been here in some days. You did bring us here from Bangor, we have been stranded by this storm, and the camp now is just as we have found it. Yes?'

'Including the foreman's cabin burning down?' Miss Pollard asked.

'Including that. We can probably safely say that was accidental. As to our friend there...' the Doctor thought for a moment. 'He was here when we arrived. We don't know what happened to his comrades.'

Zachariah was doubtful. 'If these fellows know Thibodeau's plans, sir, they'll see straight through that story.'

'Perhaps. They won't know how much _we_ know, however. That's our advantage.'

'I don't see how that's any advantage at all.'

'Yes, well. Let me do most of the talking, Mister Moore. How is our friend doing, Charley?'

'He's still breathing, Doctor. He feels much warmer than before. I think he's going to be feverish soon though.'

'Keep him covered. Fever can't be helped but we don't want him getting cold again.' The Doctor looked at Zachariah. 'Is there anything we can make into a broth for him?'

The question was answered first with a shaking of the head. 'Most everything we brought for food has burned up in Mister Alfond's cabin but there might be something in the cookhouse. I'll go look.'

'Take Charley with you.'

'But – '

'Now really, Doctor – '

'Go on, both of you. Don't take too long.'

Setting his jaw, Zachariah wrenched the door open and tramped directly outside, for once not noticing the immediate ache in his hands at this fresh exposure to snow. It was no comfort that Miss Pollard was no less happy at being sent along with him. He was certain this was petty revenge for his wanting to go home. Well, it wouldn't get to him. He wouldn't let it.

'Cookhouse is this way, Miss,' he said grudgingly before setting off into the thick wall of falling snow. 'Mind your skirts now.'

'There's no need to be a boor,' she told him crisply.

He couldn't resist. 'We can't all be high and mighty, Miss.'

'It's hardly an excuse for poor manners. Let's get this over with. I don't care to find myself snowed in anywhere with just you for company.'

Like that, was it? Zachariah bit down on his tongue to keep back an unwise retort and instead powered on through the deepening snow, resolutely not looking behind to see how well, or even if, she was following him. It was a relief that the cookhouse wasn't that far away. His feet were rapidly chilling inside his boots and it took two or three attempts to get his benumbed fingers to manipulate the iron latch of the door.

There wasn't much to be found inside, he soon discovered. A couple sacks of flour, a half-empty sack of Navy beans, and only one small, unopened cask of salt pork. There was not even any coffee. 'Take this,' he directed Miss Pollard, passing the Navy beans over. That shouldn't be too much for her to manage. He'd take the cooking kettle, several pieces of pork from the cask, and the jar of molasses he found hidden away behind a pile of greasy linen cloths. Into the kettle went a handful of eating utensils, several dented tin plates, the molasses, and the pork. That was it. Sadly.

He was just to the door with his burden when something large and dark passed by the window just to the right of the door. At once, he set the kettle down as quietly as he could. 'Put that down, Miss,' he snapped at Miss Pollard in an undertone, ducking low and scuttling toward the comparative cover offered by the large range stove against the wall.

'What are you – '

He clapped a hand over her mouth as he dragged her down with him. There could be only one explanation for that shadow. Somebody was outside. Somebody who was undoubtedly neither No Socks nor his giwakwa. Which meant there were soldiers here and that was bad. Miss Pollard was fidgeting, trying to shake off his grip, but she stilled when he hissed, 'Soldiers!'

Somebody tugged at the cookhouse door but blessedly didn't open it. All the same, Zachariah kept completely still. The last thing they needed was for even one of those soldiers to hear anything and get too curious. He didn't trust Miss Pollard not to give them away, either. It appeared that luck was with them, though, for the shadow outside the window moved on and there was only silence from the other side of the door.

Miss Pollard chose that moment to dig an elbow into his side. He scowled and let her go. 'No need of that,' he grumbled at her.

'Get up,' she said briskly. 'If there are soldiers here now, they'll find the Doctor before long, if they haven't already. He'll need us.'

She was nearly at the door before Zachariah was able to get to his feet. To his great annoyance, she was carrying the sack of Navy beans under one arm. Without waiting for him, she went barging outside, as heedless of the falling as snow anyone could be. What gave her the idea that she knew best, anyway? Still scowling, he picked up the kettle and hurried after her.

'Stop there!' A deep, brassy voice bawled, the instant he was outside. Zachariah halted immediately, the kettle banging painfully against his thighs. 'Where have you come from?'

He opened his mouth to reply but was pre-empted by an indignant Miss Pollard, who snapped, 'From the cookhouse over there, where else? Let me through. There's a man in there who's ill and needs feeding.'

'You stay right where you're at, Miss,' the brassy voice told her. 'Sirois, you go in there – hang on, stop her!'

Zachariah was running at once, leaving the heavy kettle behind without a second thought. His progress through the fresh snow was not swift but with visibility as limited as it was, he was still moving quickly enough to knock over a soldier when he collided solidly with the man's back. It was far more accidental than intended, though the reaction was astonishingly speedy and decisive. He had not even fully landed before a bayonet was at his throat and a bearded militiaman was glaring down at him.

'Move and you're getting skewered,' the fellow growled.

'Push off,' Zachariah snarled in reply, with somewhat more steel than he should have shown in the circumstances.

'Leave it, Doyle. Get the fellow up.' The orders were given by the soldier with the brassy voice, who remained outside Zachariah's field of view. Hands reached down to grab hold of him and drag him roughly to his feet. There were five soldiers near enough to be seen through the thickly falling snow. Two of them had hold of Zachariah and a third was standing in the open bunkhouse doorway. One of the remaining two had his musket levelled in Zachariah's direction, doubtless in response to his unexpected appearance. Only one of them carried no firelock, wearing instead a sword under his dark greatcoat. He must be the officer. He also had a tight grip on the arm of the thunderous Miss Pollard.

'It's safe here inside, Major,' reported the soldier in the doorway.

' _Now_ we go inside.' The major released Miss Pollard. His was the brassy voice, Zachariah noted. 'In you go, Miss.'

Miss Pollard gathered up the fallen sack of Navy beans, which had spilled upon being dropped, and proceeded with deliberate cool into the bunkhouse. The soldiers holding on to Zachariah didn't give him that same chance at dignity. They hauled him along between them to the doorway, where they helped him through with a rough shove.

'There's no need for that,' the Doctor protested as Zachariah managed, with a distinct lack of grace, to keep his feet. The fellow was sitting now, though near enough to the still-unconscious militiaman to keep a close watch on him. 'We're not your enemies.'

'Are you not.' The militia officer seemed amused. 'We have come here expecting to find an empty camp, and instead discover the three – the four – of you. You and your lady companion are English, while this impudent little fellow is not. This suggests quite clearly to me that all is not as it should be. Therefore, I am quite minded to regard you an enemy until I should be satisfied otherwise. Will you sit down, Miss?'

Miss Pollard set down the sack of Navy beans on an empty bunk with admirable restraint but did not sit. 'I'd rather not, thank you.'

'Please yourself. Doyle, see to that man over there. The rest of you check the other buildings. There may be more people skulking about.'

The three soldiers tramped out, while the man called Doyle slung his musket so he could take a closer look at the militiaman on the bunk against the wall. He had scarcely bent down when a startled oath came from him. 'Pardon, Miss,' he said hastily, before rushing on, 'Sir, it's McArdle. He's feverish hot and frostbitten all over.'

'We can explain that,' said the Doctor.

'I should very much hope so, sir.' The militia officer removed his hat and gave it a single brisk shake to knock the accumulated snow loose from its peak. 'You may begin with your names.'

'I'm the Doctor,' was the reply. 'This is Charlotte Pollard and that is Mister Moore, our guide.'

'No Christian name, Mister Moore?'

Zachariah lifted his chin slightly. 'Nope.'

'I thought not. Now, Doctor...?'

'Smith,' Zachariah supplied.

The officer cast him a sharp, irritated glance. 'Smith. Convenient. Well, Doctor _Smith_. I'm obliged to ask after the reason for your presence here. What purpose has brought you to this wilderness?'

There was a faint smile on the Doctor's face, though Zachariah could not guess why. 'You have not introduced yourself, sir.'

'Have I not? I am Major Edward Levesque.'


	8. Chapter 8

The feeling in Zachariah's gut was not a very pleasant one. He stood warily by the bunkhouse door, his snow-dampened clothes slowly chilling him, while Major Levesque went about the business of kindling a fire in the box stove in the middle of the room. After being prodded into introducing himself, he had declared the need for warmth as taking priority over interrogation and indeed had refused to say another word until the stove was lit. The man called Doyle had likewise been stubbornly silent, staying near the bunk on which his comrade lay. There was an air about the two soldiers that made Zachariah uneasy, perhaps moreso than what little Levesque had revealed in his opening conversation with the Doctor.

It was difficult not to recall the Doctor's remark that the events in and around the Dolby Pond camp were well-timed. The appearance of Levesque and his men now made that remark seem all the more accurate. That Thibodeau had expected them now seemed obvious, though Levesque's apparent expectation of finding a deserted camp was a puzzle. Something was missing and it unsettled Zachariah to suspect that this something could only be explained by the man now pointedly dusting off his hands as he straightened up from the stove's open firebox door.

'That's better,' Levesque said casually. 'Now. The two of you were in the cookhouse, yes? What more were you carrying?'

'A kettle,' replied Zachariah with some reluctance. He disliked the idea of answering any of this fellow's questions but that one was too harmless to be ignored.

'Where is that kettle now?'

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Out there somewhere.'

'Doyle?'

'Sir.' The militiaman was already on his feet. 

'Now,' said Levesque once his subordinate was gone. 'I believe we were about to discuss your purpose here, Doctor Smith.'

'Were we.' The Doctor lifted an eyebrow. 'I'm rather more interested in _your_ purpose here, Major.'

'I'm afraid that isn't a topic for discussion, sir, but I applaud your attempt. You'll forgive my curiosity on this point, for this is hardly an ideal holiday destination. Your being here is therefore very... interesting, shall we say.'

'So is yours, for much the same reason,' the Doctor replied.

'Perhaps. I, however, have not burned down a building in this camp nor harboured an injured man, whose presence has still not been explained. We'll come back to that. May I ask where you've come from?'

'Most recently, we've come from Bangor.'

Levesque's eyebrows drew together a little. 'Have you. And before that?'

'Oh, we've been all over. Miss Pollard and I are travellers, you see.'

'What was your business in Bangor, sir?'

A faint smile played about the Doctor's lips. 'We had no business. It was supposed to have been a holiday.'

'Some holiday,' Miss Pollard muttered from where she sat on an empty bunk, a cloak draped about her shoulders.

'Indeed. We're quite a distance from Bangor now, so I return to my question. What has brought you here?'

The bunkhouse door banged open to admit Doyle, who was carrying the kettle Zachariah had dropped earlier. Another militiaman was close behind him, his musket slung upside down from one shoulder.

'Camp's clear, sir. Nobody else is here. But we did find what you said we would.'

'Thank you, Sergeant. Leave that there, Doyle. See the lads settled in the cookhouse. We'll be here the night.'

'Yes sir.'

Levesque waited until the pair had gone before asking, 'See to that, will you, Moore?'

Zachariah didn't budge. 'I'd rather not.'

'Do as he says, please,' said the Doctor.

Grudgingly, he crossed the floor to retrieve the kettle, which had filled up with snow in the few minutes it had been outside. He had to dig out the plates, utensils, and molasses bottle from it and set them aside. The few pieces of pork could be left where they were.

'I'll ask again,' Levesque went on, ignoring Zachariah as he set the kettle onto the stove top with a heavy _clank_ , 'why are you here?'

'We came for the scenery,' the Doctor answered. 'It's remarkably lovely up here. If you can overlook treachery and murder.'

'What do you mean by that, sir?'

'Oh I think you know, Major. You expected to find this camp empty because the men working here are all dead. Including the man you were probably hoping to meet here.'

The major regarded him with raised eyebrows. 'And who would that man be?'

'Robert Thibodeau. As I understand it, the two of you are business partners.'

'Thibodeau.' There was the barest hint of scorn in Levesque's voice. 'Yes, I know him. We are indeed business acquaintances, though I had no expectation of meeting him here. He is not the most reliable of men when it comes to being where he should be.'

'Where _should_ he be, then?'

'Ah – that is not your concern. It's enough to say that he is not here nor should he be.'

The Doctor sat back in his chair. 'I'm afraid to say that he's been here, Major. He left in rather a hurry. I don't know where he is now but I daresay it's best not to.'

At that, Levesque went quite still. He seemed almost to tremble, though in the poor light, Zachariah couldn't be sure. 'Explain that.'

'He arrived here some time after we did. He was as surprised as you to discover us here. We had an interesting conversation about what's been going on here. He didn't give much away, I'll admit, but he didn't have to, in the end. His Penobscot colleague filled in the blanks quite readily.'

'You do not – '

'I am all but certain, Major, that Robert Thibodeau is dead. You may want to sit down for this.'

To Zachariah's surprise, Levesque did as bidden. He did not seem shaken quite so much as disbelieving. He wasn't sure which was worse for them. There were four armed soldiers only a parade ground shout away, after all. The Doctor looked around the room before continuing.

'Thibodeau has most likely fallen victim to the same means he has used to destroy his own logging crews. You know the creature I refer to, I think.'

' _Giwakwa_ ,' Zachariah spat. It pleased him to see Levesque flinch on hearing the name.

'We know almost everything that has happened up here, Major. What Thibodeau refused to say, his friend No Socks did. It's a nasty scheme, I have to say. What I don't understand now is why the creature was used on your men as well.'

'On my men...?' Levesque looked to where the soldier named McArdle lay, still unconscious, beneath a mound of blankets. 'He did not. He would not.'

'He did. We were able to get to the scene in time to rescue him, but nothing could be done for the others. They must have become lost and missed reaching this camp. It may have been better if they had made it here but we'll never know.' The Doctor paused, apparently considering his words. 'I'm sorry to say that Thibodeau was preparing to double-cross you, Major.'

All of Levesque's previous haughty confidence had disappeared. He seemed troubled, though quite why that was his reaction was anyone's guess. Zachariah found himself frowning. He had been able to follow the Doctor's reasoning so far but his last remark had lost him. It was easy to see why Thibodeau would turn on No Socks. Who wouldn't? But why he would also double-cross a man like Levesque, who had made this whole disgusting business possible?

'I don't know that I believe you, sir,' Levesque said. 

The Doctor reached into his coat and produced a letter. 'You may want to read this.'

There was a long silence while Levesque opened and perused the two-page letter. At length, he looked up with a stony expression on his face. 'It's beyond crediting,' he said flatly.

'What does it say, Doctor?' Miss Pollard wanted to know.

'It's a letter to a Robert Dunlap, outlining this whole scheme from beginning to end. No mention is made of _giwakwa_ , of course, but it's otherwise very thorough. He does not give his reasons for being part of this, though, which is why I hope you may now be willing to discuss this business.'

Zachariah's jaw fell slowly open as he digested that statement. It threw into chaos everything he had come to believe about Robert Thibodeau over the past hours. Of most significance was his writing to the _governor_ about all of this. It was either a clear sign that Thibodeau had not been on the verge of starting a war or it was a stunning display of duplicity which set up his longtime business partner for a whole mess of trouble. It didn't erase his involvement in the deaths of his own lumberjacks, though, and to Zachariah, that was the one as-yet unanswered question.

'It was a simple enough plan in the beginning,' Levesque began, the letter still in his hands. 'I would bring part of the battalion down to occupy these two camps and do the cutting. The lumber would then be hauled back with us to the Saint John River. We would then float it down to sawmills near Saint John itself. Rumours of our activities would of course spread. Robert himself would protest to his political friends about the lack of protection here in the north country. There would be an inevitable military response, which my men and I would resist. Once there have been shots exchanged, war almost invariably follows.' He looked squarely at Zachariah. 'It is a help to us that your people are easy to provoke.'

'It seems we've got plenty of cause to be,' he shot back.

'Yes, well. Robert said nothing about how he could clear these camps until I pressed him and then he said only ' _giwakwa_ would take care of it'. He refused to explain what he meant by that. I did not learn what _giwakwa_ was until I spoke with a Maliseet elder. I confess I began then to have misgivings about this whole business.'

'Yet you didn't back out of it,' the Doctor observed.

'No. There was much to be gained from it. I have invested everything in this, you see. To raise the battalion to strength for this venture has demanded considerable resources and political capital. The militia are not in the Assembly's favour. Even simply gifting Robert with a few acres to persuade him to agree to the bargain has cost me very profitable land.' The major folded the two pages very carefully along their creases. 'But if we could incite a war, the potential rewards were immeasurable. Between the two of us, Robert and I have enough quality timber in stockpiles to turn a handsome profit by selling to our respective governments. I am a lumberman foremost, sir, but I have mercantile interests as well. A war would benefit me considerably and make good all the costs of provoking that war very quickly.'

'What did Thibodeau intend to do with the bodies of his men?' The Doctor asked. 'He would have had a hard time explaining why so many lumberjacks simply froze to death all at once.'

'We were to cart both crews north some distance and then leave them, with a few discarded pieces of our equipment. If they were found, it would seem that they had died as captives. There would have been no suspicion of Robert in any of it. Indeed, the apparent manner of their deaths would have helped our cause.'

'You're a wretched human being, sir,' Miss Pollard told him. 

Levesque offered her a wry half-smile. 'Business is never bloodless, Miss Pollard.'

'She has a very valid point, Major.'

'I'm aware of it, sir. What is there to say? I was not comfortable with such wholesale loss of men, whatever the cause, but I was and am prepared to overlook it. A few lives lost must not be allowed to overshadow my concern for the bigger picture. I have a great deal at stake in this business.'

'So you've said. What will you do now?'

'Is that not obvious? I intend to carry on with the original plan. Robert is dead, if your claim is true, and here I have the only copy of his letter describing the whole scheme. He was never one to duplicate his correspondence, you know. It will be more difficult to provoke the desired response from the Americans, but you will be able to help with that. You will return to Bangor and report what has happened here. No one will believe that there is a snow-monster here but they _will_ believe that there are soldiers from over the border and that something terrible has happened. My men and I will remain here until the US Army arrives, then we will fight.'

Miss Pollard was indignant. 'We'll do no such thing. It's despicable.'

'What will happen when we refuse?'

'I'm sorry to say that if you refuse, you must be removed from the picture,' answered Levesque. 'I have come entirely too far to risk having everything unravel now. Surely you understand.'

'Indeed. I'm afraid you will be disappointed, Major. We refuse to help you, in any way. We will in fact stop all of this here and now.'

The Doctor's calm defied belief. All that Zachariah wanted to do was leap upon Levesque and pummel him, to wipe that expression of smug triumph off his hawklike face. He could never have imagined Thibodeau to be mixed up in such an evil plot. The uncertainty he'd felt on hearing the letter to Governor Dunlap summarised had evaporated. There was no doubt left in him that Robert Thibodeau was the worst kind of man imaginable.

'I should very much like to know how you intend to stop anything, Doctor Smith.' Levesque rose from his chair and approached the box stove. He had opened the firebox door before Zachariah realised what he was doing, which made his leap to stop the major too late. The letter to Governor Dunlap was lost into the flames. His clumsy, crashing tackle of Levesque failed to do more than push him back a step or two anyway. It was easy for the older man to shake him off. 

'You're a foolish boy, Moore,' said Levesque disdainfully. He reached a hand down and ungently helped Zachariah to his feet. 'You may stay here when your companions depart, I believe. We can decide on a fate for you then.'

'I would not recommend keeping any of us here, Major,' the Doctor remarked. 'Especially not Mister Moore. You see, if the three of us don't leave here unharmed and together, _giwakwa_ will come back to this camp.'

'Impossible. Only Robert could control the creature and he is dead.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'He could not. No Socks alone has that power. He is not far away from camp and has undoubtedly noticed the arrival of your men.'

This intelligence gave Levesque pause. He still had a grip on Zachariah's coat but he was suddenly distracted, plunged deep into thought about the best thing to do next.

'The question you must answer is, what do you fear most? _Giwakwa_ or failure?' The Doctor went on, suddenly coolly relentless. 'It's possible to leave here with nothing lost except some pride, or to not leave here at all.'

'Doctor – ' Miss Pollard began, but her companion quietened her with a glance.

An hour ago, Zachariah would have felt this was an easy decision for any man to make. Now he was not so sure. Levesque had proven himself to be quite cold-hearted. Anyone who put profit ahead of human life could be nothing less. In that respect, he and Thibodeau were undeniably two peas in a crooked little pod. If only Levesque would let him go...

'I think you overestimate your hand, sir,' Levesque said presently. 'Even a fearsome creature like _giwakwa_ is no match for volley fire. I'm quite prepared to take my chances once the rest of my men arrive. They are only a day's march away. The lads with me are more than a match for a single foe.'

'I would say you overestimate yours,' the Doctor countered.

'I'll take my chances. Besides, Doctor, you've given me the answer yourself. You three may leave here, unharmed and together, and my men and I will be safe.' He gave Zachariah's coat collar a sharp twist before releasing it. Two strides brought him to the bunkhouse door, which he opened with a jerk. 'Sergeant Sirois!'

It took only a few seconds for the sergeant to appear through the curtain of snow, his musket in both hands as if ready to use. 'Sir.'

'Our guests are leaving us. See to it they're escorted clear of the grounds once their wagon is ready.' He stepped partially back into the room and turned toward them. 'After you, Miss Pollard.'

'You're making a grave mistake, Major,' warned the Doctor.

'I sincerely doubt it. Off you go, please.'

There seemed nothing for it but to obey. Zachariah curled his bare hands into fists, already dreading the inevitable ache that would seep into him when he went back out into the cold. He looked around the bunkhouse's gloomy interior, hoping to spot anything he might use to fight back with. His gaze fell on the kettle, just beginning to bubble atop the box stove. That might serve. If he could get to it before Levesque could stop him.

A hand caught hold of his sleeve and gave it an insistent tug. 'Don't do it, Mister Moore,' Miss Pollard cautioned in an undertone. 'Trust the Doctor. He knows what he's doing.'

'He'd better start showing it,' Zachariah muttered in reply, earning himself a glare from her. 

The Doctor was already at the door, to all appearances happy now to take the risk of travelling in a snowstorm, the very thing he had argued so stoutly against earlier. If he had some kind of plan, it best be a good one, thought Zachariah as he grudgingly followed on out into the snow. He wished he'd thought to grab his mittens from Mister Alfond's cabin before they'd burned it down. He was going to need them for the long freezing drive back to town.

'I'll be eternally grateful to you for the news about Robert's duplicity, Doctor Smith,' Levesque said from the doorway. 'A danger known is a danger avoided.'

'Go fetch the horses, Mister Moore,' the Doctor said to Zachariah, as if Levesque had not addressed him. 'Charley and I will clear the wagon of snow.'

So much for Miss Pollard's confidence, thought Zachariah in silent disgust. He went tramping off toward the corral without a word, head bowed into the driving snow. It seemed like the storm was worsening, with a rising wind turning the snow into frigid stinging waves. These were no conditions to be driving in but it was plain they had no choice. Zachariah blundered into the corral fence, then on trying to find his way around to the gate, stumbled over something buried deep beneath the snow. In the heartbeat before he caught his balance by seizing hold of the fence, he knew exactly what it was he had just tripped over.

It was difficult to fend off a morbid sense of curiosity. He knew what lay beneath that mound of snow yet he felt a great urge to see it anyway. There was knowing and then there was _knowing_. Gritting his teeth, Zachariah stepped carefully over the spot and continued along the fence to where he had earlier hung up the team's bridles and neck collars. The gate was not far from there. Once he reached it, he'd have to force it open against the snow that would be piled up around it – a task he wasn't wholly sure he could manage well, being cold and tired. If he wanted to get out of here, it had to be done, and he knew that. The gate was well snowed-in, he saw as he reached it, and he scowled. Perfect.

'You go now?'

The sudden question, asked from uncomfortably close by, made Zachariah yelp. He spun unsteadily around to see No Socks regarding him with a grave expression. Where had he – 

'Yes. Yes, we're going,' Zachariah replied, his shock swiftly replaced by a hot resentment. 'The major's making us.'

No Socks's expression didn't change but there was the faintest shift in his voice when he asked, 'Levek?'

'That's him.' The response was grunted more than spoken for he was busily kicking snow clear of the gate so it could swing freely. 'We're to go back to Bangor and raise the alarm, so he can have his fight. All the way back, in _this_ , while he stays here where it's warm and there's food...'

It took him a moment to realise he was grumbling to empty air. The Penobscot had disappeared. Well! It could be no concern of his, he told himself. He managed to drag the gate open a few feet and trudged through it, whistling for the team. These were no conditions in which to waste time chasing the Shires down. The mare with the blaze on her face was the first to come shambling toward him, snow lying thick on her back and neck. It was impossible to see the blanket he'd thrown over her earlier. 

'You first then,' he said, making his way along the inside of the fence to where he'd hung the tack. He'd have to warm the bits up somehow before bridling the pair, he reminded himself. The mare followed him, whuffling gently, but when she suddenly stopped, so did Zachariah. Her head lifted and her ears pricked fully forward, alert to something that he could not hear. Then she shied, snorting loudly in alarm. Sheer instinct sent Zachariah diving between the fence rails before those big hoofs could come down on any part of him.

As he struggled to get himself upright again in the deep snow, he heard shouting from the direction of the bunkhouse. He curled his hands into damp fists and tried to keep his fingers from losing too much warmth. The air was skin-tighteningly cold again and that told him everything he needed to know about what was happening.

'Sir!' He stumbled to his knees twice before getting his footing. The strength to run came to him from somewhere. 'Miss Pollard!'

The Doctor's voice rang out through the thick curtain of snow, but it was not in answer to Zachariah's hail. 'Stand fast, you men! Stop!'

That was at least an indication he was still alive, but it did nothing to calm Zachariah's fear. Only _giwakwa_ could make the air so frigid and only No Socks could send the beast anywhere. No Socks, who had just learned how things stood in the camp.

The voice of Sergeant Sirois lashed out in answer to the Doctor's command. 'Make ready, boys!'

'Stop!' 

All at once, Zachariah was on the scene, nearly blundering into the Doctor, whose cloak-shrouded form was only visible at the very last moment. He stood midway between bunkhouse and the buckboard, one arm held straight out before him. Through the snow, it was just possible to see the glow of light from the open bunkhouse doorway, but little could be seen of the soldiers who were obviously very close by and ready to fight.

'Don't shoot, or we'll all be killed!' The Doctor was advancing on the bunkhouse, his stride that of a man determined.

'We'll kill _it_ first,' was Sirois' answering declaration. 'Present!'

The air was becoming like ice and he could feel his fingers beginning to freeze. _Giwakwa_. There was no doubt at all that the Doctor was in the right of things. If those soldiers opened fire, giwakwa would scream and they would all be done for. 'No Socks! Call it off!' It hurt awfully to shout. 'Send it back into the woods!'

From somewhere nearby, No Socks cried out in a strange, almost sing-song, language. What was he saying? Zachariah staggered to a halt, his arms wrapped tight around himself in an attempt to keep warm even as warmth bled out of him. Giwakwa was very close. It had to be. He ground his teeth together and tried to stay on his feet, but the strength was gone from his legs. It was all he could do to muster up the breath to call out, 'Don't shoot it!'

It was no use. He had scarcely closed his mouth when he heard Sirois call out 'Fire!'


	9. Chapter 9

He closed his eyes and waited for the scream that would freeze him solid, but nothing happened. There was not even the crack of muskets firing. There was only the ghostly whisper of falling snow and the laboured, wheezing rasp of his own breathing. Had the storm swallowed up the noise of shooting? It seemed a stretch of the imagination – but then, with everything that had happened up to now, he supposed it was possible.

A cracking voice, sounding very much like Sergeant Sirois, lifted itself through the snow. 'Fire, boys!'

'Flints won't spark!' One of his man rasped in reply.

Zachariah attempted to ponder that. It made little sense to him why flints should not spark but it was good they didn't. If they couldn't shoot _giwakwa_ , they would live a little bit longer. Well, 'longer' was maybe relative. He breathed out carefully, dreading the agonising inhalation that had to follow. Cold. It was too cold. He curled as much into a ball as he could, despite the snow that melted and seeped into his already sodden clothing. It was a vain attempt to retain the warmth steadily draining from him. All sensation in his feet and hands had been lost, and the heavy numbness was creeping its way inward through his limbs. This was inexplicably worse than the cold he had felt in Mister Alfond's cabin, when _giwakwa_ had nearly done for all of them.

'Put your guns down, Sergeant!' The Doctor shouted. 'We're in no danger!'

'The hell we're not,' was the sergeant's strained answer.

'I can promise you we are not. We're more likely to be killed if you persist. Put your guns _down!_ '

'What if we do? That thing'll turn us to ice, like it's done the major.'

There was significance behind that remark but try as he might, Zachariah could not grasp it. It was more like a string of words trailing after each other than anything else. Only 'ice' and 'the major' stood out to him as having any immediate meaning.

'There's nothing to fear. You have my word.'

That same whispering silence descended again. Like as not the soldiers were going to try firing again. If he had the air in his lungs, he'd shout at them not to. Instead, it was all he could do to keep drawing in complete breaths. If _giwakwa_ had gone, it certainly had not gone very far. Without a doubt its aim was finish him off too, as it had failed to do so so many times before now. All else seemed entirely irrelevant as that single thought settled its claws into the block of ice that his brain was becoming. In a way, it was actually fair, he supposed. He _had_ been one of the Shad Pond crew, after all, so why not...

'Mister Moore?'

The voice was as unexpected as the use of his name. Zachariah willed his eyes to open and with an effort lifted his head as much as he could. At first, he could see nothing but a thick, shifting veil of white, but after a moment, a large dark shape loomed toward him. It was the Doctor. He had no words in him to speak. Hell. He barely had any breath in him. The best he could do was gaze upward in frosty confusion at the man who appeared so unaffected by the cold.

'Come on, we'd better get you inside. Sergeant, will you lend a hand here?'

It took a moment for an obviously reluctant Sirois to approach, but his reticence appeared to ease when he took in Zachariah's state. He slung his musket, muzzle down, and stooped to get a good grip on his snow-covered coat. It was easy work for him to lift Zachariah's weight and even his icicle-plagued brain recognised that it was Sirois far more than the Doctor who carried him to the bunkhouse.

This was not the relief Zachariah needed. The bunkhouse was frigidly cold, frost thick on the windows and floor, and the box stove covered with a thin layer of ice. He peered blearily at the stove as Sirois paused in the doorway to utter a low, heartfelt oath. The Canadian sergeant released his hold on Zachariah, abruptly burdening the Doctor with his full weight, and moved hurriedly out of Zachariah's limited field of view.

'McArdle's dead,' the sergeant said after only a moment, his voice sounding cracked even to Zachariah.

The Doctor was struggling to get Zachariah across the floor to the nearest bunk. 'I was afraid that would happen.'

'You what?'

'You had better call your men in here, Sergeant – and ask Charley to come in from the wagon as well, please. I believe I have the solution to all of this but I'll need everyone's help to make it happen.'

Whatever on earth that meant. Zachariah felt himself being laid out onto a straw-filled bunk mattress that crackled almost ominously beneath his weight. He tried to lift his head to see more of the room but the Doctor stood in the way, the snow-dusted folds of his cloak being most of what little he could see. Sirois was slow in doing as bidden and of him Zachariah caught only a glimpse as the sergeant tramped back outside, his musket back in hand. That could mean nothing good but for the life of him, he could not curl his mental fingers around _why_.

'Doctor, are you all right?' Miss Pollard was the first to come into the bunkhouse.

'Perfectly fine, Charley. Gather up some blankets for Mister Moore, he's half-frozen. Then sit with him, please. Don't let him move.'

Move. Zachariah could not even twitch his fingers. His whole body felt like solid ice. Warmth was what he needed, not motion, but warmth would be slow in coming. He knew that. Especially when Miss Pollard began laying cold blankets over his curled-up form. His damp clothes should have come off first, he realised sluggishly, and he wished he had the strength in him to speak. Instead, he closed his eyes against the new layer of chill settling over him as the blankets were draped around him.

The soldiers had since come in. He heard their boots clumping dully over the floor. None of them spoke and it sounded as though they were gathered on the opposite end of the room. Something metallic was clattering and he caught a whiff of sulfur as a match was struck. The box stove. Somebody was trying to get a fire started in it. Fire meant heat and heat meant warmth. Zachariah opened his eyes. 

The Doctor was still standing almost squarely in his line of sight. This had to be intentional but he had no idea why. The only soldier Zachariah could see, therefore, was Sergeant Sirois. It was Sirois attempting to coax a fire to life in the box stove. Miss Pollard was only just visible to Zachariah's immediate left, perched on a chair with a cloak wrapped tightly about her. Like the Doctor, she did not seem to have been troubled too much by _giwakwa_ 's attack. Was it just his abysmal luck to be so badly affected?

'As you can see, Major Levesque is dead,' said the Doctor suddenly, jarring Zachariah out of his meandering thoughts. 'The creature that killed him has also killed Robert Thibodeau, and many others as well. There is only one way to defeat this creature. That is with heat. Heat melts snow and ice, and is the only thing which has driven the creature away from here before now.'

'There's not much round here to produce heat,' Sergeant Sirois pointed out.

'Actually, there is. This building will produce heat when it burns. We set the foreman's cabin on fire earlier and that did the trick. This is a rather larger structure as well. It'll suit our needs perfectly.'

'We can't very well burn down – '

'What's your plan Doctor?' Miss Pollard cut in.

'I think we have to burn the bunkhouse, with _giwakwa_ inside it.'

Absolute silence greeted that declaration. Zachariah thought he understood not only what had just been said but also the implication beneath the Doctor's words. He meant to lure _giwakwa_ into the bunkhouse and then set the bunkhouse on fire. How on earth did he intend to do that? More to the point, how would any of them survive the attempt? Even being near to _giwakwa_ was enough to freeze them solid.

'You're out of your mind,' Sergeant Sirois said presently, looking squarely at the Doctor with disbelief plain on his face. 'That thing won't be defeated so easily. What you're suggesting will put all of us in great danger. More than we'd face if we hunkered down here and waited for the rest of the lads to get here.'

The Doctor was shaking his head. 'It seems impossible but I assure you that it is quite possible. I mean to speak with No Socks and persuade him to send _giwakwa_ in here, after we have vacated. He is the only one who controls this creature but I think he'll be happy to do as we ask.'

'This is madness. We had better take our chances with our muskets. That damned thing killed the major,' snarled Private Doyle.

'Shut up,' Sirois barked.

'If you want to try your luck out there in this, you're welcome to. Sergeant. Take your men back to the cookhouse, please. It'd be best if you didn't come out again until I tell you.'

Zachariah tried to lever himself up on the bunk to make his own objection to the plan, but Miss Pollard was quick to put a hand out to keep him still. 'I have to – '

'No you don't,' she told him firmly. 

'What happens if we don't go?' Sergeant Sirois was saying. 'We're armed and you aren't.'

'That's true. You may stay here, of course. I can't make you go anywhere. But, I should warn you that _giwakwa_ will come into this bunkhouse whether you've left it or not.'

Sirois looked toward his men, then back at the Doctor, obviously digesting the many possible meanings of that remark. The sergeant faced a tough choice. Zachariah could recognise that, even as frozen as his brain felt. However Sirois decided, the militiamen would find themselves literally out in the cold – but that also applied to himself, Miss Pollard, and the Doctor. He had no desire to go back outside into the snow and the cold. Not again. He tried again to sit up and Miss Pollard again pressed him back down.

'How do you plan to get the creature in here?'

The Doctor sounded pleased. 'I plan to offer it something it can't refuse.'

It was on the tip of Zachariah's tongue to ask what on Earth he meant by that, but Sirois voiced the question first. There was scepticism evident in the Canadian's voice and expression. It was a feeling Zachariah shared, which wasn't helped by the low-voiced conference between Sirois and the Doctor. Wasn't that unkind of them! They could at least share their planning with the rest of the group! It took some determined argument for the Doctor to persuade Sirois to accept this plan, but he had eventually bowed to the Doctor's seeming confidence. Whatever it was appeared to require the departure of Sirois' men, who were sent out to the cookhouse, taking the bodies of Levesque and McArdle with them. 

Enough sensation had returned to his hands and feet to allow Zachariah to wriggle fingers and toes without too much pain. He still could not move much else and so was obliged to watch as the Doctor and Sergeant Sirois piled furniture around the box stove. They were the only other occupants of the bunkhouse aside from him, Miss Pollard having been sent to clear the wagon of snow once more. This appeared to be deliberate but Zachariah couldn't puzzle out the reason.

'Now,' said the Doctor, dusting off his hands, perhaps a trifle theatrically. 'You'd do best to rejoin your men, Sergeant.'

'When I've seen what you mean to do about this creature,' was Sirois' response.

'It really isn't wise – but suit yourself. Stay here. I have to go speak to No Socks.'

Sirois began to protest but the Doctor had already gone out into the snow. The sergeant was left to glower balefully at the the door. His gaze soon found Zachariah, who still lay beneath a small mountain of blankets. 'I suppose it's really you I ought to blame for all this,' the militiaman grumbled. 'You Yank lumberjacks have been nothing but trouble for weeks. But for you, we'd not be here.'

'It's nothing to do with me,' Zachariah managed to reply. His voice was no more than a croak. 

The Canadian scoffed. 'The hell it's not. Your boss set us all up. I don't believe for a second he's dead. If he's smart he'll stay well clear of this camp though. I'll happily put a ball between his eyes, especially for what he's done to the major.'

'He's dead. You can trust that.' It wasn't hard to understand Sirois' bitterness, really. It was a bitterness Zachariah could share. He swallowed, with some difficulty, and tried to ignore the sandpaper feeling in his throat. 'But _giwakwa_ has never been under Thibodeau's control.'

'That's not so according to the major and I trust him a hell of a lot farther.'

'Pity he's dead now,' Zachariah rasped.

A dangerous expression darkened Sirois' face. 'You had better mind your tongue, boy.'

'That'll do, gentlemen,' said the Doctor as he came striding back into the bunkhouse, a stone-faced No Socks in tow. 'Now, this will be enough to melt _giwakwa_ 's frozen heart, I think.'

The Penobscot looked around silently for a long moment before grunting. 'He may not agree to this.'

'He will if you convince him. I think I have the means to achieve that persuasion.' The Doctor reached into his coat. 'Sergeant, you are witness. I have here the deed to three thousand acres, which formerly was in the possession of Robert Thibodeau. It is yours, No Socks, as I believe it should have been all along.'

There was no change in No Socks' expression as he reached for the folded paper, after a pointed hesitation. He did not read it and instead tucked the paper into his buckskin jacket with great care. 'Tibb kept this from me. It is good for it to be mine.'

'Yes. It will also, I think, serve as the great kindness he promised but failed to deliver. Do you agree?'

'I must speak with _giwakwa_. It is a decision for him.'

'Yes, of course.' The Doctor did not press his argument, which Zachariah found curious. If ever there was a time to ensure that there was no room for refusal, this was it. Yet the Doctor seemed content to accept No Socks' lack of commitment. It made no sense. Indeed, it appeared to cast doubt on the chances of survival for everyone currently in the camp. 

'I will speak with him. You will wait.'

No Socks disappeared out through the door. The Doctor did not seem surprised. 'Sergeant Sirois, it may be wise now to rejoin your men. I don't want to see any more of you frozen solid.'

'You're setting us up to be turned into icicles, sir,' Sirois observed tersely. 'We're not hanging around here for that. I'm taking my lads out of here. We're going to rejoin the others and bring them back here fast as we can manage. Firepower will settle this creature's account much more soundly than your own daft scheme.'

With that, the militiaman showed himself out without a backward glance. 


	10. Chapter 10

  
It didn't seem that the Doctor even noticed Sirois' departure, busy as he was gathering up clothes and blankets from around the bunkhouse. It was not in him to sit up, never mind help, but Zachariah tried anyway. He succeeded only in stirring up a wave of tingling red-hot pain through his limbs. His abortive attempt to move drew the Doctor's attention and he crossed the bunkhouse floor in only a few strides.

'Keep still, Mister Moore. It's important to avoid too much motion. You're not warm enough yet.'

'I'm well enough. We have to get out of here.' He had to swallow twice before continuing. 'You can't buy off _giwakwa_. It will come back and it will kill us.'

'Oh I don't consider it "buying off". It's much more a case of setting something right. Robert Thibodeau didn't know the danger he put himself in by refusing to honour his part of the bargain, but his oversight is our salvation.'

'Salvation is a swift escape,' Zachariah countered. 

'We'll hardly need a swift escape. Indeed, I think we'll be able to take our time returning to town.'

The bunkhouse door banged open to admit Miss Pollard, whose head and shoulders were thickly coated with snow. 'Doctor! That creature is coming. It's turning so awfully cold. What do we – '

'Is it? Excellent. What we do is get Mister Moore carefully to the wagon. He must move as little as possible. If you'll take a good grip on the mattress, Charley...' The Doctor already had a grip on the straw mattress near Zachariah's head, and on his count the pair lifted it straight up. The best they could manage was an awkward shuffle toward the door but the appearance of No Socks as they struggled to get outside allowed them to carry Zachariah more or less ably across the yard to the wagon. It was only then that he realised the wisdom of taking the mattress as well, for it would protect him from the layer of snow in the wagon bed.

'This ought to be enough blankets,' Miss Pollard said once he was settled. 'I'll get this tarpaulin over you in a minute. It'll keep the snow off.'

'Thank you,' he replied and was surprised to discover that he didn't resent needing a woman's help with something so simple.

'Just stay warm.' She spread the canvas tarpaulin over him and he noted, belatedly, that she'd rigged it somehow so it stood like a tent. Then she was gone from view. It occurred to Zachariah that his position was now quite an advantageous one, for he could see most of the main yard and the whole of the bunkhouse. It was sheer chance he had chosen to park the buckboard in this way, on this spot, but he was immensely glad for it.

No Socks had gone back to the centre of the yard, knee-deep in snow and utterly heedless of this fact. 'I have spoken with _giwakwa_ and he is pleased. He agrees to what you plan.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said the Doctor. 'We've cleared out of the bunkhouse. It's all his, when he's ready.'

The Penobscot called out something in that strange sing-song language of his. A moment later, a feeling of heart-stopping cold crept into Zachariah, bleeding the precious warmth back out of him. He drew in as deep a breath as he could before it inevitably became too painful to breathe but this time, the lethal cold did not last. Instead, he watched as a towering, shaggy, white-furred creature shambled into view. It had no lips to conceal its wicked teeth and its eyes glowed a dull malevolent red. It did not pause but went at once into the bunkhouse. That was the first time he had properly seen the beast. It was every bit as terrifying in its physical presence as it was merely being a shadow on the edge of one's vision.

'What a horrible creature,' Miss Pollard observed in a hushed voice. She stood at the end of the wagon bed, the cloak pulled tightly around her. Even with it, she was shivering. Only the Doctor and No Socks were unaffected by the cold that _giwakwa_ brought with it. The two men waited near the bunkhouse door, appearing to converse quietly until No Socks nodded toward the bunkhouse. He went inside and did not return until the glow of fire was evident to everyone watching from outside.

Zachariah tried to find the words to express his feelings as he watched flames begin to flick hungrily through the open bunkhouse door. Nothing sufficient found its way to his tongue. All he could do was scowl. _Giwakwa_ had killed so many for no better reason than the greed of Robert Thibodeau and Edward Levesque. That these two were now also dead offered no comfort. Two dozen good lumberjacks lay buried beneath the snow and their loss could never be offset by the death of the men responsible for that loss. 

'Will this work, Doctor?' Miss Pollard asked of her companion, who had joined her at the end of the buckboard bed. 

'I hope so, Charley.'

'I think we should harness the horses. Just in case.'

The Doctor hesitated. 'Maybe. If you can catch them. They may have escaped. It seems the corral gate was left open.'

Damnation. That was his own fault. He had never shut the gate after being spooked out of the corral when the mare had panicked. It seemed like hours ago now. He didn't dare speak up and own such an unforgivable oversight, however. To do so when he had been insistent on their leaving here as fast as they could seemed unwise. Instead he bit down on his tongue and steadfastly tried not to think of how difficult it would be to catch the two horses later, once he'd regained his strength.

Miss Pollard didn't sound bothered by her companion's hesitation. 'It has to be done, hasn't it? I don't think I can stand watching that bunkhouse burn anyway. Keep an eye on Mister Moore, Doctor. I won't be long.'

It didn't seem like the Doctor was aware that she had gone, such was his focus on the now merrily-blazing bunkhouse. Zachariah himself found it easy to dismiss her from his mind as he watched the flames crawl steadily up the rough eaves to the roof. Even across the yard, it was possible to feel the heat of the fire. He took great heart from that. Whether or not this would be enough to be the end of _giwakwa_ remained to be seen but it was damned hard to see how it couldn't be. There was nothing on earth that could survive being in the middle of such a blaze.

'What a glorious sight.'

'Hmm? Oh, yes. I guess it is.' The Doctor glanced at him. 'Beware of vengeance, Mister Moore. It's a terrible poison in your heart.'

'An eye for an eye,' Zachariah countered. 'Seeing that thing dead is the nearest the boys will get to justice, sir.'

'Is it truly justice? I think not. Justice is the guilty being held accountable. This is merely a second-best solution.'

'But it was _your_ idea.'

'It was. What other option was there? No one will leave here entirely happy, but everyone _will_ leave alive.'

Beneath the blankets, Zachariah gingerly flexed his hands. 'That's a shame, sir. I'd have done for those soldiers too, just in case. You heard Sirois. He's coming back with more soldiers. There'll be a war up here yet.'

'Oh I don't know about that. You should have nothing to worry about, in fact.'

'What d'you mean?'

The Doctor smiled. 'He has not gone anywhere, Mister Moore. If you'll excuse me. I'm going to have a word with the good sergeant.' He swept snow from his hair and set off, slogging his way slowly across the yard, toward where the four militiamen stood watching the bunkhouse burn. Just what he hoped to accomplish was anyone's guess. Not that Zachariah really much cared. It was far more worthwhile to him to watch the bunkhouse's roof begin to sag as the trusses weakened. It really was a roaring fire. Flames had eaten a hole through the roof just above the eaves, In fact, and from that hole a column of steam rose. Now _that_ was interesting. He frowned. Why was there steam, of all things? It should be smoke and smoke alone.

He tried to ponder that oddity. Steam occurred when water boiled. But there was no water in the bunkhouse. Was there? Snow was essentially water, though, so perhaps it was simply down to the heavily falling snow being melted by the fierce heat of the fire. The bunkhouse was burning well, either way. Sharp _pings_ could just be heard over the roar of the flames as the windows shattered in the heat. It gladdened his heart to know _giwakwa_ was in there. There was no way it could survive such an inferno. This knowledge was a great comfort to him. So much pain and death had been caused by that creature that it was absolutely fitting to see it meet its end. The Doctor's warning had slipped completely from his mind. 

Snow crunched beneath boots as somebody approached the buckboard, but Zachariah didn't look away from the blazing bunkhouse. It only belated dawned him that it was not just a single person when he heard the jangle of metal. That had to be Miss Pollard, who must have been lucky in catching the two Shires.

'Get their collars on before you get anything else ready to go,' he called over his shoulder. 'The saddle and the spider go on next, then the bridles.' 

'We know how to harness workin' horses, thanks.'

That was most certainly _not_ Miss Pollard. It was not yet in him to twist around to see who had led the horses back, beyond that it was one of the soldiers. A soldier who was not Sergeant Sirois. The private called Doyle, perhaps? Zachariah found that his enjoyment of watching the bunkhouse burn had evaporated. Having the enemy so close behind him, when he was all but defenceless, was extremely disconcerting. The militiamen must surely be aware of his vulnerability too. He remembered readily how keen they had been to stick their bayonets into him earlier.

The voice of Sergeant Sirois did nothing to ease his nerves. 'Once you're done, lads, pile your arms. We've got a lot to do here yet.'

Zachariah was feeling around beneath the blankets for something, anything, that might be useful as a weapon should the soldiers come for him, but then the Doctor was there on the scene. He sounded as cool as he had been when facing down Robert Thibodeau over the muzzle of a musket. 'Thank you, Sergeant. We'd have been in a pretty pickle trying to manage this on our own.'

'Happy to help, sir,' Sirois replied. Quite how he managed to keep the sneer out of his voice, Zachariah could not say. Perhaps it was in his expression. The sergeant had been nothing less than contemptuous since Levesque had died.

'You can manage all right once we're on our way?'

Harness bells jingled. It was a jarringly merry sound. 'Leave everything to us. We know what we're about.'

'Perfect. Thank you.'

Frowning caused his face to ache but he could not help it. What in the hell were those two talking about? What was there to “manage” and what did “a lot to do” mean? His fingers brushed against the haft of a shovel and curled gingerly around it. Just in case. But as it turned out, no one intended any harm. The clink of tug chains and the persistent jingling of harness bells went on until both Shires had been harnessed, then for a long while the only sound was of the crackling fire as the bunkhouse succumbed to its inevitable destruction. The silence was next broken by the tearing crash as the roof collapsed, breaking in two along the peak and falling inward rather like an enormous arrow.

The soldiers murmured amongst each other in what sounded like delight, though it was impossible to hear their words. Attempting to listen in was outside his interest. His attention was too fixed on the now roofless bunkhouse, which seemed to burn with more intensity after the roof's demise. It was also apparent that steam was as prevalent as smoke, and he was not the only one to notice this anomaly.

'Why is it not all smoke, Doctor?' Miss Pollard asked.

'Steam, Charley. Ice is being melted in there and it's creating quite a lot of steam. It's quite amazing, really.'

'But how is there ice in there, sir?'

The Doctor appeared in Zachariah's field of view but stayed turned partway toward the burning bunkhouse. 'It's _giwakwa_ 's frozen heart, Mister Moore. Remember?'

'Well, no, sir,' he replied, then paused, a memory catching up to him. 'Or maybe. Must be one hell of a hunk of ice.'

'Yes, undoubtedly. ' The Doctor clasped his hands behind his back. 'I suspect we'll see _giwakwa_ again soon.'

'We'll what?' Sirois demanded.

'Oh there's no danger, Sergeant. Probably.'

'Probably?'

The Doctor shrugged. 'In the unlikely event that this doesn't work, there's room in the wagon for your men. The horses are hitched up. We can make our escape fairly quickly, I think, but it should not be necessary.'

'You'd better be right. Sir.'

'He usually is,' Miss Pollard remarked.

Zachariah kept his grip on the shovel haft. The idea of having Canadian soldiers in _his_ buckboard was not a palatable one. If he had the strength to sit up, he'd be up on the driver's bench and they'd be well away from here, snowstorm or not, before anything else could happen. 'We'd best go now, sir.'

'Not yet. We have to see this through.'

'The hell we do. It's smarter to make tracks while _giwakwa_ is... while it's busy.'

'Patience, Mister Moore. There's nothing to – '

'Doctor, look!'

All eyes went directly to the fire, which was guttering quite badly. The bunkhouse walls were no more than half-burned yet the flames had receded, as if abandoning them. With the roof gone, the stumps of the blackened timber framing seemed lonely. Fire still gnawed stubbornly at the remains of the roof, which lay heaped in the middle of the single room, but it was neither as bright nor as fierce as it had been just a few minutes ago. It was almost like somebody had snuffed it nearly out.

No Socks had stood motionless in the main yard ever since the fire had started and only now moved, striding toward the ruined bunkhouse. It crossed Zachariah's mind to call out a caution to him, for it was madness for anyone, even an Indian, to go charging into a still-burning building. Words stayed unspoken on his tongue. For, even as the Penobscot reached the gaping doorway, a hunched, fur-caped figure shuffled out of the smoke.

'Grandfather,' said No Socks, in English.

Zachariah's jaw fell slowly open. _Grandfather?_ 'What – ?'

'Hush, Mister Moore.'

The two Indians clasped hands, seeming nearly self-conscious, then the weathered old man who'd emerged from the still-burning bunkhouse lifted both his hands above his head. He began to chant something in his native language, which caused the Canadians to shift restlessly. Only the Doctor and Miss Pollard were unbothered, though for the life of him, Zachariah could not think why. For all they knew, the old man was about to change his shape or something, and they would all shortly be killed. 

'I'd thought that would happen,' the Doctor commented.

'Is that truly his grandfather?' Miss Pollard wanted to know. She appeared to have as much difficulty believing this as did Zachariah. Until now, he had imagined _giwakwa_ to be so evil a beast that it must be inhuman. Surely no man of earthly origins could ever do, or have done, the things _giwakwa_ had, but this was quite plainly an inaccurate assumption.

'So it seems. Are you surprised, Charley?'

'Well, yes,' she admitted. 'What does this mean, Doctor?'

'I'll explain later, after we're back on the road. Is everything ready?'

'Yes, I think so. Should we – ' She cut herself off mid-sentence, realising that the old man had stopped chanting. The militiamen had been conversing quietly amongst themselves but they too fell silent. It was as if they were all waiting to see what the old man would do next.

Movement came first from No Socks, who turned toward them but pointedly did not approach. ' _Giwakwa_ is no more. We are going from here. It is wise to not follow.'

'No Socks,' said the Doctor, stopping the two Indians before they could depart. 'There is one last thing.'

'What is it?'

'You will need someone to act for you, in order to make use of that deed. I know enough of society in this period that you will get nowhere without a representative. That's why Mister Moore will be your agent, so to speak.'

'I what?'

'Just nod, Mister Moore,' the Doctor told him.

Zachariah hesitated, his head spinning dizzyingly, then nodded. What else could he do? This was such a sudden change in the circumstances that he had no idea where it had even come from. Had the Doctor planned all this from the start? It was impossible to see how he might have, but there was no other reasonable explanation for how easily he seemed to make decisions. It was not lost on him that the Doctor himself was taking none of the responsibility onto himself, either. Now what gave him the right – 

'That will be good,' said No Socks. 'I know where this boy is to be found. I will see him in three days.'

'Excellent. That is happily settled, then.'

'Hang on a minute – '

It was as if no one had heard him. No Socks and the old Indian were setting off, wholly untroubled by the ruin they were leaving behind them. Zachariah began to protest, to point out that all of this was down to that old man, but the buckboard shifted just slightly on its runners, indicating that somebody had climbed up onto the driver's bench. It seemed they were about to leave. Finally.

This was borne out by the Doctor speaking again. 'The camp is yours now, Sergeant. Thank you for your help.'

'You'd better get on your way, sir. It'll be dark before long. Can you find the road?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'Safe journey, then.' Sirois was briefly in view, his gaze turned skyward. 'At least it's not snowing anymore, eh?'

'Oh it isn't? How interesting.' The Doctor didn't sound surprised, which in turn was not all that surprising, somehow. 'Are you settled, Charley?'

'Let's be off, Doctor. I want to be somewhere warm again.'

There was a slight slap of driving lines across the Shires' backs then the wagon was in motion, gliding forward smoothly through the deep snow. As the wagon turned to make its way south, back toward civilisation, Zachariah peered upward as best he could around the edge of the tarpaulin tent above him. It was a shock to realise that it had indeed stopped snowing. 


	11. Chapter 11

'You been through the ringer, ain't you, boy?'

The gruff question came from Mister Dent, who stood with arms folded while two of Zachariah's fellow stable hands carried him carefully into the stable. He had not offered to help.

'It's been a difficult couple of days, yes.' The Doctor stood to one side with Miss Pollard next to him. 'Difficult couple of days' was understating it rather heavily, but Zachariah was in no shape to offer any corrections. He'd had to perch uncomfortably on the driver's bench for most of the journey home, acting as a guide for the Doctor, who had insisted on driving the team. It was not the ideal arrangement but they would never have gotten back to Bangor otherwise.

'You better not have cost me an employee, sir,' Dent said.

'Oh I don't think so. A warm bath and a lot of rest will get him back on his feet again.'

'I'll be taking the cost of all this out of his hide, you can be assured of that. Hey, Daniels. Go get water on the boil. Moore needs a soak. Ask Mister Hatch for some warmed brandy too.'

Wide-eyed, Daniels was off at once. It was rare for Dent to ask Mister Hatch for _anything_. For him to make such a request for one of them was simply unheard of. Zachariah would be embarrassed by this singular honour later, when he was thawed out enough to appreciate its significance. In that moment, having just been settled into an empty stall which had, blessedly, received a fresh bed of straw, he cared only that he was able to rest. Abbot and Hanscombe lingered in the aisle after ensuring that every blanket was in place, seeming at a loss for what to do in the face of this disruption of their routine.

'Get back to work, the pair of you!' Dent barked, causing both boys to jump. 'You're not paid to be idle. Get these horses unharnessed and rubbed down, then see they're fed. Have neither of you got brains in your heads?'

The Doctor waited until the two had gone dashing past before approaching the stall. Miss Pollard was right behind him. Neither seemed to have paid Dent and his irritable shouting any mind. 'How are you feeling, Mister Moore?'

'Half-frozen, sir,' he rasped in reply.

'Well, that's understandable. I'm sorry to have nearly gotten us lost. You'd have gotten properly warmed again otherwise. But I'm sure you'll be well looked after here.'

Not by Horace Dent, but he didn't care to say as much. 'Think so, sir.'

'Good, good. Charley and I will be on our way fairly soon. I don't think we'll be seeing each other again. Don't forget that No Socks will come to see you tomorrow, I believe.'

How could he have forgotten that, when the very prospect had haunted the back of his mind ever since the whole arrangement had been thrust upon him? 'I won't,' he promised, after having to swallow once or twice to ease the dryness in his throat. Then it dawned on him that the Doctor was leaving and leaving for good, according to him. 'But there is still a lot I want to – '

Miss Pollard was shaking her head. 'You'll find it's best not to ask too many questions. There's always more to know but it's easier to stay in the dark.'

That made Zachariah frown and ignore the ache this caused. He had asked plenty of questions on the drive south, doing his best to understand everything that had happened in the Dolby Pond camp. The Doctor had not seemed bothered and in fact seemed happy to indulge Zachariah's curiosity. Indeed, he had had a lot to say and often didn't need prompting, particularly on the subject of what would likely happen after they returned to town. It made Miss Pollard's warning seem all the more curious.

'I don't understand how – '

'Brandy, Zach,' said Daniels, walking with extreme care so as not to spill a drop of the lightly steaming brandy he was carrying. 

The Doctor plucked the thick pewter mug from Daniels' hands. 'Help Mister Moore to sit up, if you please. He can't drink lying down.'

Daniels was quick to leap to the task, taking care to lever Zachariah up into a sitting position. Only once this was done did he get the mug back and he kept a grip on it while Zachariah drank from it. 'Will he be all right, sir?'

'Yes, with rest and a warm bath. He'll need to take it easy for a few days too. I think you and your friends can make sure of that, though.'

'We sure can.' Daniels lifted the mug a trifle too hastily when Zachariah started to cough, causing some of the brandy to slop out onto the topmost blanket. He began to apologise and Miss Pollard stepped in quickly to take the mug from him before his embarrassed twitching caused him to spill more brandy.

'We'll be on our way now, Mister Moore,' the Doctor said, an ironic smile on his face. 'It seems you're in very good hands. Thank you for all your help.'

Zachariah ignored the confused expression on Daniels' face as he reached up to return the Doctor's offered handshake. 'Will you never come this way again, sir?'

'No, I don't think so. We don't visit the same place twice. It takes the fun out of things.'

'Oh. But – '

Miss Pollard held out the pewter mug to Daniels, who took it with widened eyes. This whole exchange was entirely beyond him and it was very obvious he had no idea what to make of it. 'It's... well, it's rather like revisiting a place takes all the mystery out of it. What's the point of travelling the world, or beyond, if you go back somewhere more than once?'

'There's nothing beyond this world,' Zachariah pointed out with a frown.

'Well, yes. I mean – '

'See to it Mister Moore doesn't do too much in the next few days, Daniels,' the Doctor said to Daniels, one hand briefly resting on Miss Pollard's arm as if in warning. 'If your Mister Dent doesn't do it, send for a surgeon to see to his feet. Come on, Charley. We'd best be off.'

'Yes, sir,' Daniels replied automatically. The response was almost unheard, for the Doctor and Miss Pollard were already departing. The abruptness of it all made Zachariah's head swim. He could not help feeling that he had just missed something important – not for the first time in recent days – and he decided it was not a feeling he liked at all.

'Help me stand up, Billy,' he said, stretching his arms upward.

'But – '

'Damn well do it!'

His face flushing, Daniels hurriedly set the half-empty mug safely aside before stooping to heft Zachariah up. Being upright did not agree with his legs at all. He leaned on Daniels far too much for his liking, but pride had to be set aside for the moment. With his friend's help, he was able to shuffle to the back of the stable and thence out. It was the same direction in which Miss Pollard and the Doctor had gone, yet at first there was no sign of either of them. There was only a singe blue outbuilding standing just beside the carriage shed. It had never been there before. Had it? He began to point Daniels in its direction, but the younger boy had come to a sharp halt, his face chalk-white. It was only then that Zachariah became aware of a strange whirring, whooshing sound. It came from the blue outbuilding. Even as they watched, it began to fade until, with a final whirr, the blue shed-like structure disappeared.

Beside him, Daniels fainted clean away.

~

It took a week for him to get properly back on his feet. Another finger, fortunately on his left hand, and a couple more toes had been lost, but beyond that, the surgeon who'd looked him over was amazed the damage hadn't been worse. Mister Hatch had made it clear that Zachariah was to do no work until he was fit to. The enforced rest was welcome, however much Dent had grumbled about it. None of the stable hands had any doubt that once he was able to work again, Zachariah would be given all the worst tasks in the place.

They weren't wrong. Once he had regained the strength to stand, then walk, he was directed by Dent to clean all the harness gear in the stable. This was a blessing in a way, for it kept him from the heavier jobs, but the monotony of the chore soon threatened to put him out of his mind. There was only so much scrubbing and polishing a fellow could do before he began to loathe the work. 

It did his standing in the stable no good to have No Socks appear on the second day of his convalescence, either. He'd all but forgotten being cornered into promising to help that damned Indian. But it was still a promise. Anyway, No Socks' only concern was ensuring that his claim to the land for which he held the deed was protected by law. Engaging the services of a lawyer was required for that. Daniels was sent to find one who'd agree to make a house call and eventually found one. Squaring the business away took days and Zachariah got the distinct impression that the only man to come out of it content was No Socks himself – not, of course, that the bastard knew how to show it. Or any emotion at all, for that matter. 

Still. When the last papers were signed and copies of them duly parcelled out, Zachariah was relieved. That was the end of that! Nothing else remained to keep the events in the north on his mind. He was free to get back to the familiar limits of an unexciting life as a stable hand. Then a spotlessly dressed gentleman turned up one afternoon, asking for Zachariah with careful courtesy. Dent himself directed him to the back stable yard, where Zachariah sat on a crate, carefully scraping rust off the hames of a neck collar. The stable boss then left, albeit with obvious reluctance. It took a moment for the gentleman to speak and when he did, it was all Zachariah could do not to let the collar slip out from between his knees.

'I am Henry Caldwell, from the _Whig and Courier_. It's come to my attention that a supply wagon was recently sent to two of the logging camps on the West Branch owned by Robert Thibodeau. It returned just yesterday still fully loaded, with the report that these two camps were entirely deserted. Several buildings had been burned to the ground. I'm informed that you were the last man to be in those camps. Therefore, I'm quite interested to learn exactly what transpired in those camps.'

It took a moment for Zachariah to gather his wits. Caldwell's blunt approach caught him off-guard. Fortunately, the Doctor had explained how to deal with this sort of thing on the return journey. He looked up at the newspaper man and answered, 'I'm afraid there's not a lot to say. Those camps were busy and occupied when I was up there. I was only there a day or so before coming back to town. Everything was normal when I left Dolby Pond.'

Caldwell glanced pointedly at Zachariah's left hand, which was still bandaged around the missing finger. 'Only a day or so, yet you have had a finger frozen so badly it had to be removed.'

'It gets wicked cold when you drive a team, sir. Especially straight through. Mister Hatch doesn't much like fellows who waste time so I didn't stop along the way to make a fire and warm up or anything.'

'I see. What of the two passengers you conveyed there and back?'

'Oh, them? They had business with Thibodeau. He wasn't up there. Dan Alfond hadn't seen him in days. So I carted them back here and they went off somewhere. Probably to find him.'

'They haven't been seen in Bangor since you brought them back,' Caldwell told him.

'I don't know anything about that. I've been laid up for a week.'

'Hm. So you saw and heard nothing unusual there, nothing at all?'

Zachariah shook his head. 'Nope. The boys were all fine. Seems you know more of it than I do anyway, sir.'

'Do you recall the names of your two passengers, at least?'

'Nope. I never asked. It's not my place, y'know.'

It was evident by Caldwell's expression that he didn't believe that but he didn't press the point. Instead, he sighed. 'You don't seem too bothered about any of this, if I may say.'

'Well, sir,' said Zachariah evenly, 'for all I know, you've made it all up. When I hear it from a lumberjack, then I'll believe it as God's truth. Until then, it's only rumour to me.'

'I see. Good day, then.'

 _Peckerhead_ , Zachariah thought as Caldwell showed himself out, stepping very carefully to avoid the piles of soiled straw that Abbot and Daniels were raking into the wide aisle between the rows of stalls. Caldwell had gotten it all correct but either left out some details or did not know them. Everything at Dolby Pond had been burned and the bodies of the crew properly buried, through the exertions of Sergeant Sirois' men. The Shad Pond crew were to have been left where they lay. The idea was to present the illusion that fever had broken out in one camp and then spread to the other. Whether or not that story held up remained to be seen. He could only hope.

The newspaperman never returned. Zachariah chose to take this as a good sign. A few days later, Daniels brought in a many-times-folded broadsheet, removing it with difficulty from under his shirt. It was one of Horace Dent's many rules that the stable hands should not waste time on such frivolous things as newspapers or books, so Daniels' smuggling of the former was singular. It was the day's edition of the _Whig and Courier_ and on the second page he saw what had caught Daniels' interest. He had to read the short paragraph twice before he was able to decide if he was relieved or amused: 

> MISSING LUMBERMEN. A most curious disappearance of logging men in several  
> logging camps located on the Penobscot River has been reported. The camps are owned by  
> Robert Thibodeau who is a prominent Bangor businessman. We are reliably informed that   
> loggers from New Brunswick have been seen in that region in recent weeks and it is   
> believed that these have enticed our men away from their employment by means as yet   
> unknown. The recent brief presence in Bangor of two strangers, probably from St. John,  
> who professed to have business with Mr. Thibodeau supports this belief. 

'Is that what happened, Zach?' Daniels asked when Zachariah passed the refolded newspaper back to him. The notice was obviously Caldwell's work. It was funny that he was so wide of the mark but even such wild supposition was a good thing. So long as no whiff of the truth ever got out, he didn't care what went into print.

'I don't know. It's possible, I guess.' He made himself shrug. 'Mister Thibodeau has some questions to answer when he gets back to town.'

'But if he's defected, he won't come back to town.'

'True. It's no skin off my back if he doesn't. Hell, I'm glad he dismissed me before all this happened. Canada's no place for a lumberjack, Billy.'

That seemed to appease Daniels, who stuffed the newspaper back under his shirt. He would probably show it to the others next. Zachariah waited until Daniels had gone before flexing his hands. That his own name hadn't appeared was a distinct relief, if only so he did not have to answer any pointed questions about his own involvement in this mess. It occurred to him then that the Doctor's disinterest in visiting the same place twice was much more down to the avoidance of consequences. Consequences like those which Caldwell's notice hinted at. Obviously he was far more clever than he appeared.

From the front of the stable came Horace Dent's trademark 'Get back to work!' It was a bark that caused annoyance and an immediate stirring into motion, no matter how many times it was heard. Yet, at that particular moment, it was the most welcome annoyance in the world. Despite himself, Zachariah chuckled. He decided then and there that this really was not so bad a life after all.


End file.
